The Sorcerer's Apprentices
by Laughy-Taffy the Grape
Summary: A thousand years is a long time to wait, but with his luck, Merlin will be too busy to notice. Containing spy-work (and politics), hospitals (and Greek goddesses), and Elvis (and style). Immortal!Merlin fic.
1. KING

AN: Here's the edited version of this story. To new readers, I hope you enjoy what I have written. To re-readers, welcome back!

Beta: SummerQuill

Changes: Just a touch-up.

* * *

><p>King<p>

**In Which Elvis Plays His Part In Arthur's Destiny**

_1976-1990_

Merlin's most memorable encounter with singing went thus:

It was fall in Ealdor. The harvest had been brought in and most of the winter plants planted, so not much was left to be done except wait for the snow to set in.

Merlin and Will, both 13, had been unofficially elected as the leaders of The 10-14-Year-Old Troublemakers, and it just happened to be Will's turn to choose where they would go and what they would do. That is why seven boys and one girl found themselves crouching in the bushes outside the cobbler's home, not long after dark.**  
><strong>Will turned to Merlin and uttered the infamous words.

**"**I dare you," said he, "to go to one of the windows and serenade Violetta."

Violetta was the cobbler's middle daughter, also 13, and although she was considered to be the prettiest girl in the village, Merlin had always found he held little interest for her. But, a dare is a dare, and five other boys (and one girl) were watching. To refuse would have been social suicide.

And so he found himself standing in front of the back window where the likelihood of anyone seeing was nil, and singing a famous ballad he had learned by heart.

It was right then that he made a horrible discovery.

To sing with several other boys whose voices were also cracking was one thing. To sing by oneself, in front of a window of an occupied house with who knows how many people listening, while your voice was going through what he later deemed 'the death-throes of puberty', was something else altogether.

By the time the cobbler stepped outside to see what the noise was, he saw no one. This was both good and bad; it was good because then Merlin was momentarily spared the shame of explaining his presence. It was bad because Merlin was still there, and still singing. What had happened was, he had accidentally placed a _please-please-PLEASE-don't-notice-me_spell on himself out of sheer embarrassment. It took him three hours to get it off, and by that time there were search parties, and stories of a ghost with Merlin's voice.

It was about that time that he made a vow never to sing again.

He grew older, moved to Camelot, gained immortality and the ability to see the future in great detail. Arthur became king, and they built a kingdom across the whole of Albion. During these years, he broke his vow very little.

It was not until he was almost thirty-two that something changed. He was sitting in Arthur's study, and two were going over reports on a magical creature attacking in the north. Everything seemed fine.

Merlin dropped his papers with a thump, his eyes going wide and distant. Arthur, although he had seen this rarely enough, knew Merlin was having a vision, and so said nothing until his friend blinked and shook his head.

**"**Merlin?"

Merlin looked at him curiously. He said two words.

**"**Yasmin Debufort."

Then he turned and strode out, leaving behind a very confused Arthur.

Even then, Merlin did not know exactly who Yasmin Debufort was, he had simply heard her name, and known she was somehow important . . . but he didn't know how.

Again, he grew older. Centuries passed; he mourned the deaths of hundreds, but none more than Arthur, and Gwen, and all his first friends. He never became one instant older than 21.

When World War I had happened, he realized why the name was important. It was in that moment that he knew he would have to change his mind about music.

Why?

Because Yasmin Debufort, being a young lady from a wealthy family in Cardiff, loved nothing more than music, and any who cherished a hope of becoming friends with her had to love it too. Most specifically, they had to love Elvis Presley.

Merlin had to catch Yasmin attention, and hold it. He contracted piano lessons.

From the years 1922 to 1976 he soaked up all kinds of music, classical, rock, romance, everything he could get his hands on, but especially the music of Elvis, slipping record after record into his gramophone.

His hard work paid off. One day he was literally startled to discover that, after approximately fifteen hundred years of indifference, music was the most beautiful thing to him.

And not a moment too soon; there was a concert in America he was attending. Time to finally meet her face to face.

He enjoyed the concert immensely (miracles do happen) but it was there that he 'accidentally' bumped into her. She was barely 14 at the time, a sweet-faced, blonde-haired girl; he may have looked too old for her, but after he struck up a conversation, she seemed to find him intriguing.

**"**Have I ever met you before?" she asked. "You seem familiar."

Merlin made a crack about lame pickup-lines (some things never change) and conveniently forgot to mention that he _had _met her before - after she had died the first time, when the sorceress Morgause had opened the gates of Avalon and pulled her through to converse with her son. Of course, then her name had been Ygraine. But she didn't need to know that.

As they left the concert hall together, chatting like old friends, he tensed imperceptibly. This was the part he dreaded.

A dark shape moved in the shadows. "Hey you!" the shadow said in harsh American tones. "Give me your wallet!"

Yasmin squeaked and instinctively grasped Merlin's arm. She was trembling.

Merlin raised an eyebrow (shades of Gaius . . . really, he needed to stop channeling his old guardian). "Um, I'm going to have to go with no."

The shadow moved and materialized into a man, medium-sized but strong. He glared at the two, taking in the skinny dark-haired man and young blond girl. Although what he was thinking at that moment will never be fully known, he gestured and other shadows came forward, five in all.

**"**I'm sorry," said the man, and he sounded like it too. "But we're desperate." He nodded. "Take it."

Merlin simply smiled frostily. "Sure you will." He knew these men would never find out about the fact he knew almost every fighting style there was (he had lived in almost every civilization established after the 6th century, after all). No, it wouldn't come to that.

The fight only lasted a couple of seconds; a hand grabbed Yasmin's arm and she struggled. It's funny really, how moments of desperation can bring out talents you never show to anyone.

Yasmin's eyes flashed gold. The man went flying.

Merlin's eyes followed suit. The leader collapsed like a pole-axed cow; the rest of the men, obviously frightened and now leaderless, made a hasty retreat.

There is a moment of silence. Merlin dared not turn, waiting for his companion to speak first.

First she emitted a rather strangled choking noise, rather like she had a hair caught in her throat, and the next second she said, "You can do it too?"

He relaxed and looked at her. Those big blue eyes, so much like her son's, glittered with terrified tears. He could almost feel the hope radiating out of her every pore. Growing up in a small village where he had been the only magic user, living next to a kingdom where even the suspicion of sorcery could get you killed, he knew exactly how she felt.

Very, extremely, absolutely alone.

**"**Yes," he said softly, "Yes, I can."

* * *

><p>It took two hours to convince her parents he should be the one to teach her the fine art of magic. Two hours of begging, cajoling, crying, and arguing. Finally, they sighed, rolled their eyes fondly, and relented.<p>

"Three days a week, maximum," Mrs. Debufort said.

"And Taylor"—that was Yasmin's older brother—"must go with you," said Mr. Debufort.

Taylor, being fifteen and a boy, rolled his eyes and groaned loudly.

Mrs. Debufort pulled Merlin aside after dinner and smiled gratefully. "Thank you for doing this, Mr. Eggleston. If you only knew—but you probably do, don't you?"

Merlin cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow in question.

The woman smiled. "Yasmin's had a hard time with this magic business. Ever since we found out, we've tried to help, but how do you help something like this? We were all out of our depths. I was about to give up hope, thinking there was no one like her out there." A curious sideways glance at him. "Do you know, er, if there are any others? Magic users, I mean?"

Merlin simply smiled.

* * *

><p>And so began Yasmin Debufort's instruction. Merlin knew magic had become weak and diluted through the years, so he was pleasantly surprised to find this young girl was extremely powerful by modern standards. Nothing compared to Merlin, of course, and a novice when set alongside the memories of Nimueh and Morgause, but still, he was impressed.<p>

Also, the more time he spent with her, the more he compared Yasmin with Arthur. They didn't just look alike (except she was, of course, shorter and much more feminine), in some ways she acted like him. The old insults would never have stuck—she was too ladylike and gentle for that—but in terms of heart, in terms of generosity, in terms of love and the friendship she and he shared, they were exactly the same.

The two bonded over their love of music, listening to Elvis' greatest hits, slamming out tunes on guitars and pianos and violins, going to concerts and sometimes even singing themselves. Merlin taught her about the music of magic, the hum of life and how to get in touch with it. He showed her defensive spells and offensive spells, magical theory and magic in the real world. He pulled her to sites of great magic (Stonehenge, among other places. He had wanted to take her to the Isle of the Blessed, but that was in Avalon), pushed her to learn dates of sorcerous significance, and even informed her of his immortality. Not his real name, though. Hopefully he would always be Mervin Eggleston to her.

The one time he caught her looking at a book that contained information about the whole 'life-for-a-life' spell, he very calmly took it from her and said she would never need to know that sort of thing.

Merlin wished it was the truth.

In this manner several years passed. They became close, she developed a crush on him, he told her he wasn't interested, she went to school and graduated and learned magic like a fiend and became very good at healing spells, and thus, she became a nurse, always, always, always thinking of others—_Just like Ygraine, isn't it?_—and then, when she was 20, the invitation came.

The invitation was from a former apprentice of Merlin's, one David McCarthy. David had gone into politics, and was now a very wealthy, well-known man. He was planning a gala, and wanted his mentor, now 'younger' than he was, to attend.

"I'm assuming you have a new apprentice," the postscript said. "Go ahead and bring him, too."

Yasmin squealed with delight at the thought. She had always loved parties. For the occasion, she picked out a lovely blue dress that matched her eyes perfectly, and her teacher commented that he had never seen her so vain.

She smacked him for that one.

Merlin was rather dreading the gala. Blessed as he was with the gift of foresight, he knew what would happen there.

* * *

><p>David's house was ostentatious, but then again, so was David, an intelligent gentleman with a loud, laughing voice and tall figure. He and his wife stood to receive the guests, chatting amicably and greeting old friends. On entering the house, you would find yourself in a splendid hall where temporary servants took your coat and ushered you into the main gathering room. Chandeliers and candles, drapes and tables loaded with foods of all shapes, sizes and textures. Yasmin was in heaven.<p>

Mrs. McCarthy had been watching her. Though the good woman knew little of Merlin, other than he had taught her husband magic and been like a second father to him, she knew David thought the world of him. And so, she decided to befriend this young lady, so innocent and sweet.

Mrs. McCarthy smiled. She had just the thing.

Yasmin felt a hand on her arm and turned. "My dear," Mrs. McCarthy said. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

Yasmin followed. She was led over to a young man that sat by the side, momentarily alone, a young man with dark hair and dreamy eyes.

Merlin, from where he was talking to a French politician's wife, saw it all. He saw as the man stood and took Yasmin's hand and kissed it, saw her slight blush and his soft smile. He knew Mrs. McCarthy was introducing him as Ulric Peterson.

_And so it begins,_ he thought. Then, _When did I become so cliche?_

* * *

><p>For the next several months, Merlin spent more time alone as Yasmin and Ulric went gallivanting all over the country. He wasn't resentful, it gave him some much needed peace. But dread filled him every time he saw them together.<p>

In less than a year, he was wishing them joy. The date was set for late spring, and he watched fondly as Yasmin walked about on a cloud of happiness. The Debufort family was ecstatic over this piece of good news, calling florists and caterers by the dozen, setting up pavilions and tables in their spacious backyard. Ulric's oldest friend, Dan Caswell, was to be the best man, and Merlin felt a bit of curiosity at seeing him and his wife, Laura. Most of the reincarnations at least shared the first letter of their names with their previous counterparts, but not these two, otherwise their names would have been something like Greg and Valerie.

He shook that line of thinking away. No time, now. He had sealed everyone's destinies by going to that Elvis concert. There would be no turning back.

Merlin sat quietly during the whole ceremony, sandwiched between Taylor, now a fine RAF pilot, and a sobbing Mrs. Debufort. He didn't think he had seen any two happier people than Yasmin and Ulric, unless it was their son and his wife on their wedding day. The previous king and queen had eyes only for each other, and barely looked away until they had sealed their love with a long kiss.

Everyone clapped as the new Mr. and Mrs. Peterson walked away to take pictures.

Later, after dinner and toasts and cake-cutting, Yasmin pulled Merlin into a tight hug. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for everything."

He closed his eyes to hold his tears in. _Don't thank me!_ he thought desperately. _I've ruined your life. You just don't know it yet._

In his deepest heart, he acknowledged that this was not quite true. Ulric and Yasmin would have met anyway, sometime. She would have learned magic anyway, in her time; all he had done was speed up the process. But Merlin was nothing if not a martyr.

So he simply hugged her back and said, "You're welcome."

* * *

><p>After the wedding, Merlin saw very little of his apprentice. Ulric didn't exactly approve of magic (no surprises there), and she knew about as much as she could anyway, so more education would have been useless. They went their separate ways, one to her work at the hospital, the other to his study of what he called 'magical science' (Gaius would have been proud). Two or three letters a year were exchanged, they would ring each other up at holidays, a visit maybe twice a year.<p>

But no matter how infrequent their visits were, Merlin was not surprised when Yasmin showed up on his doorstep a couple weeks before her 27th birthday.

For a few moments, they simply stood staring silently, the pale immortal warlock and the golden-haired queen. Then Yasmin spoke.

"I suppose you know why I've come."

Merlin nodded slowly. She looked away, down the street.

"May I come in? To talk about it?"

There was a second where Merlin considered shutting the door in her face, but it would do lots of harm and absolutely no good, so he stepped aside and the young woman entered. He led the way to his workroom and there he saw her steel herself. Oh yes, she was ready.

Or was she? Did she really know what she was asking?

"I know what you're going to say," she intoned rapidly, before he could so much as open his mouth. "You think I shouldn't do this, that it will do more harm than good. Aren't you?"

He shrugged. "Not really. What I was going to say was I'm not going to do it."

She deflated. "Wha — you haven't heard me out yet!"

"Never said I would. Don't need to anyway, I know what you'll say."

"Mervin, please!" she begged. "Please, listen." For a second neither said anything, and then he nodded. "Thank you."

Yasmin turned around to look at the various magical objects on the clean white walls surrounding her. Several deeps breaths later, she was ready again. "I love Ulric. He loves me. He does everything he can to make me happy. He respects me, brings me little gifts, cooks me dinner sometimes (though usually we have to throw it out), hugs me and kisses me and just. Loves. Me." This came through tightly gritted teeth. "I do what I can, but right here I have failed. He wants a son. I know this, he told me when we talked of children. 'Yasmin,' he said, 'you may have as many daughters as you want, but please, just give me one son.'" Yasmin shuddered. "Just one. The only major thing he's ever asked of me and I've failed!" She whipped around. "Ever since I was a child I've wanted to be a mother. A mother of my own children, that I've carried and labored for." Her face squinted in something very like agony, and her eyes sought Merlin's, beseeching. "Am I to be defeated by my own body?"

He said nothing.

Here her hope began to fade. The look on his face was rather stony. But she knew of his soft heart. Maybe, just maybe . . .

"I'm begging you. I saw that book, I know what you could do. I know you can help me."

"Then you also know of the consequences?" he interrupted. "You know what will happen to you."

"It's my choice."

"Your husband might think differently."

Her eyes shot closed. "I know, I know, but Mervin, I can see him."

A strange feeling shot through Merlin's aching heart, for more than one reason.

"See . . . who?" he whispered. The silence in the workroom was absolute as Yasmin trembled with the intensity of her longing.

"Him. My son," was the barely audibly answer. "I can see him when I close my eyes, in my dreams at night. I just know he'll be a son Ulric could be proud of. Someone who would replace me better than anyone."

_Not likely,_ was Merlin's skeptical thought. His thoughts wandered to his childhood, spent hiding his gifts and shrinking away from strangers, just because Uther had been willing to mess with the balance of life so he could get a son.

But really, even remembering this, he might have said yes. Except there was the small fact that he was a Seer. And being a Seer, he knew that no matter which answer he gave, the result would be basically the same.

Yasmin would die. Arthur would live.

"No," he said.

This answer broke his heart, and stomped on it, and as soon as it passed his lips he wished he could take it back. But Merlin had spent almost his whole life picking between two awful choices, and saying no would maybe-possibly-probably-certainly turn out just a little bit better than saying yes.

"I can't. I simply can't do it, Yasmin. I can't be responsible for your death."

Yasmin was silent for several seconds, her eyes finding the edge of the table, her cheeks flushing (with anger? Or sadness?), and then she swallowed.

"I'm sorry, Merlin. I shouldn't have done that. It was unfair of me to ask this of you. You've always been very kind to me, how can I expect you to take my life?" She turned away. "I'll call you later."

_Will you?_

"Let me get you some cake first," said he. "Please. You must be hungry."

A second of hesitation on her part. She didn't want to leave on bad terms anymore than he did. "Alright. But I can't stay long."

The cake took on a few minutes to prepare, even moving as slowly and deliberately as he was.

_How much longer? Ah yes. Let's go_.

"Here."

She took the plate, but their eyes didn't meet.

He could catch a vibe of her hidden feelings.

The uppermost one was guilt.

The next was confusion.

_She's not even sure why she's doing this. _His face remained expressionless, but inside he was seething. _Why must destiny fool around with everything. And don't tell me it's for the best!_

But it was for the best. He knew that. He had seen it. It was not really destiny that was pushing Yasmin towards her own demise, but her inner feelings, and a sense that something would not be right if she didn't do this.  
>And Merlin had had enough experience with trying to trick destiny to know that even he, a hardened fighter, could do little to destroy it. Yasmin stood no chance.<p>

And if she left with her bag a little fuller, what was he to do? If she both hated and justified herself for stealing that book with information on giving life and taking it away and exchanges, well, I couldn't really say, could I?

* * *

><p>"Hello?"<p>

**"**_Hey, Mervin? It's Taylor, you know, Yasmin's brother?"_

**"**Ah, yes, how are you Taylor?"

**"**_I'm fine, Yasmin just asked me to call you."_

**"**Oh? Why?"

**"**_She's gone into labor, and Ulric's on a business trip. She wants you to be here."_

". . ."

**"**_Mervin?"_

**"**I'll be there in ten minutes."**  
><strong>

* * *

><p>As soon as he got through the front doors, he was running. Even then, he feared he would be too late. He wanted to see her, just one last time.<p>

The fact was, Yasmin was not powerful enough to make the spell work properly. Oh sure, she did everything correctly, she got pregnant, but to her utmost horror, her child, her precious son, was stillborn.

Notwithstanding, Merlin had learned long ago to not underestimate the power of a mother's love and longing.  
>The doctor, for some unfathomable reason that would probably turn out to be the influence of fate, had gently placed the now-clean baby into Yasmin's arms and left them alone. This meant that no one was there to witness the event.<p>

Merlin felt it, though. And the technician on the fourth floor, he felt it. A small gathering of men and women about two miles away felt it, not to mention the mathematics teacher in the nearby primary school, the old woman in a nursing home, and five others.

An enormous force surged from Yasmin's hospital room two seconds before Merlin skidded through the door.  
>Yasmin slumped forward, the baby slipping. Merlin lunged, one hand grabbing her shoulder, the other steadying the infant.<p>

Carefully, he lifted Yasmin's head. She blinked blearily at him.

Then, she smiled. Just slightly. The baby started to squirm and whimper.

"It worked . . ." she murmured. "Arthur . . . my Arthur . . ."

The doctors and nurses streamed into the room, and Merlin was shunted out. He stood, looking through the open doorway, as the medical professionals struggled to save her life.

It wasn't until they all stepped back and the doctor called the time of death (8:14 AM, November 16th, 1990), that Merlin realized he somehow held Arthur in his arms.

Yasmin had, in her desperation, literally forced her life out of herself and pushed it into Arthur. If Merlin hadn't known it was going to happen, he would have been amazed.

Now, looking down at the Once and Future King and his old friend, then through the window at the lifeless body of his apprentice, he felt nothing but sorrow.

* * *

><p>It was two days later. Merlin was sitting in his kitchen. Anyone watching him might think he had turned to stone, he sat so still, his hands clenched tightly on top of the table and eyes staring straight ahead.<p>

The phonograph was playing:

'_Love me tender,_  
><em>Love me sweet,<em>  
><em>Never let me go . . .'<em>

Actually, there was one movement: the tears that slid silently down Merlin's face.

**"One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain." **

— **Bob Marley**

* * *

><p>Despite having gone through about a thousand readthroughs by me and two betas, it is still very possible that there are mistakes, so feel free to point anything out – good or bad.<p>

Please tell me what you thought about it. I welcome any feedback.


	2. MIDNIGHT

AN: And chapter two again. Can you tell I love hot cocoa?

Beta: SummerQuill

Changes: Just little ones.

* * *

><p>Midnight<p>

**Here There Be Marshmallows**

_1997_

He wasn't sure what woke him. Perhaps the stifled crying from the room next door, maybe the silent opening of a door, or the soft footfalls passing his room. Whatever it was, he awoke, and turned over, aware of something not quite right.

When he peeked into the hall, the kitchen light was on, and occasionally little sniffs would emanate from its general vicinity.

_Bad dream? _he wondered, and entered the brightened room.

Anne sat, shivering slightly, at the table. She glanced up for only a second when he entered, then back at the dark mahogany wood. She was still shy of him, as he had adopted her and two other older girls only a month ago. Neither said anything, he just looked about the kitchen as if hoping for an answer to spring from the refrigerator, and tears glided slowly down her plump, seven-year-old face.

Abruptly, he moved to the stove and took a saucepan out from under it, set it down, took a container that rather boldly said COCOA on the side from another cupboard, and started carefully placing spoonfuls in the pan. Anne was watching him again, her wide eyes taking in all the proceedings, but especially the just-noticeable limp, that slight favoring of his left leg. Three heaping plops of cocoa, and almost as much sugar, while water boiled in the microwave. Merlin quickly made the hot chocolate, almost on auto-pilot, like he had done it a thousand times before. Add milk, heat, vanilla, done. Get two mugs, fill, carry to the table with a bag of marshmallows.**  
><strong>He set one mug down in front of her. "Drink," he said softly, "you'll feel better."

Only one second of hesitation, and suddenly her cup was almost overflowing with 'mallows, and being drunk like the girl was dying of thirst. Her adopted brother (he insisted he was not old enough to be referred to as 'father') downed his slower, but with no less enthusiasm.

"More?"

"Yes, please." She had a brown mustache now, which was totally at odds with her blond hair.

After about ten minutes of drinking, he murmured, "Why are you out here anyway? It's quite late. Or rather, early."

The clock read fifteen minutes past twelve.

Anne shivered slightly. "I can't. I really can't go back into that room."

Merlin looked at her sharply. "May I ask why?"

Two pairs of blue eyes met. Anne's fell first, into the steaming brown of delicious chocolate. "It's too dark. There's no light at all." She looked up again, reddening. "Please, I'm not frightened of the dark. It's what's in the dark that scares me."

He nodded, brow furrowing. "Do you want a light?"

She smiled weakly in response.

Merlin stood. "Just a moment, I have one I can find in a jiffy." Just before he reached the door, he stopped and turned back.

"Just out of curiosity, what _do_you think is in the darkness?"

"It, it doesn't really matter. You wouldn't believe me anyway."

_You wouldn't say that if you didn't want to tell someone._"Try me."

There was a pause.

Anne spoke softly. "When I close my eyes in the dark, I see things in my head. Awful creatures and monsters, griffins and vampires and ghouls, but they're worse than any I could have _imagined_, I just know they're real. They stand around me at night and scare me and I can't get them to go away."

She sighed and took another drink. It reminded Merlin of someone drowning their sorrows.

"I'm sorry, I never noticed before," he said, but she shook her head.

"I haven't seen any since I got here."

"You've only been here a month."

"Yes, I know. I'm not sure what it is about this house, or you, or my new sisters, they don't come as often anymore. At the orphanage, they would come twice a week. More." She ducked her head. "The other girls would laugh because of my nightmares."

_Ghouls and griffins? _whispered a little voice at the back of Merlin's head. _Hmm, I wonder why _those _are there . . ._**  
><strong>He ignored it.

"What do you think they want?" Merlin asked.

"They never speak," she replied, "they only watch."

"Do you want my help getting rid of them?"

She looked at him with a sharpness that defied her young age. "You could do that?"

"Absolutely." _Banishments? Piece of cake. Besides, this is the perfect way to bring up the subject of magic._

All three of the girls had magic, he knew. The eldest, Divina, being ten, even knew it was there, but was frightened, not understanding what it meant. She and Anne would be the easiest to convince, with Anne so young. It was the middle girl, Melinda, that he was worried about. Melinda had reached the sensible age of nine, and so would scoff at any supernatural topics. Unless he showed her beyond a doubt . . .

_Ah no, they're asleep. I'll convince her another time. Just Anne, tonight._

"Show me where they are," he said.

* * *

><p>Anne's bedroom door <em>creak!<em>ed open, and she pointed. "There, they were standing around the bed."

"Like moths to a flame," Merlin muttered, but shook his head when she shot him a questioning look. For a moment he thought. Then he nodded.

"Yes," he said, "this is what we're going to do. There's no need to be frightened, but I'm going to turn off all the lights and we'll wait for them, alright?"

Merlin looked Anne straight in the eye. "I need you to be brave, Anne. You're going to have to draw them towards you, draw their eye away from me. If they realize I'm there, they'll leave. They're just spectres, they can't hurt you, but you know it'll be frightening." He knelt down and clasped her shoulders tightly. "I'll be here, and I'll get rid of them. Understand?"

She nodded, her eyes wide. She gulped. Merlin smiled. "Thank you," he whispered.

Merlin stood, and strode out for a moment to switch off both the kitchen and hall lights. An oppressive darkness stole over the house, and Anne gripped herself in fear. Gentle hands, worn by years of use and handling, took her shoulders and guided her to the bed.

"You stay here," came the disembodied whisper. "I'll be by the door. It's not very far."

The hands left her, and she scrambled under the covers, quaking. She tried to pretend to sleep, but couldn't.  
>Their arrival was very commonplace: the room always grew warmer, as if heated by the memory of a summer's day, and seemed to smell sweeter. This always confused Anne. <em>Where do they come from?<em> she wondered. _Someplace nice, I reckon. But why, when they're all so scary?_

Faint, misty lights illuminated her visitors. An enormous golden griffin, taking up half of the small room, towered over her, its wings flexing impatiently, its eyes rolling in every direction. A blue-skinned Sidhe, small and petite and fairy-like, all sharp points and malevolent features, flitted here and there and everywhere, while a large hog just sat and stared with unnerving intensity.

Anne whimpered. _Hurry up hurry up hurry up hurry up hurry up hur—_

BANG!

Anne jumped about a foot lying down, which was impressive, and hurriedly sat up. Merlin had moved from his spot by the door, and now she could see him—mostly his eyes, which glowed like dragon's gold. He held a warding hand out in front of him, the creatures flinching away from him, hissing and gasping and cawing. Merlin stepped inexorably forward, whispering powerful words under his breath, a look of utter concentration steeped into every previously invisible line of his face. The creatures shrieked as one, and it seemed like an answering echo came, like other monsters knew they were being banished from their favorite sport — tormenting Anne Evans — as well.

"Go back," Merlin said firmly. "Go back, and stop haunting this girl. You have no place in this world, not for many years past, and not for many years to come. So leave."

The creatures hesitated.

"Leave!" Merlin all but bellowed.

This time they listened, dissolving into cold sparks and vanishing.

Merlin sighed, long and soft, his arm returning to his side. Darkness returned, but still Merlin seemed to glow with some sort of inner light.

"Are they gone?"

"Yes."

"Forever?"

"For . . . a very long time."

"They'll be back?"

"Eventually, yes. But you don't have to worry about that for a while."

"Oh."

She almost collapsed with relief. Neither said anything for many moments, then suddenly, she sat up again and said:

"What do you say to finishing that hot chocolate as celebration?"

When Divina awoke the next morning, it was to the surprising sight of her new brother and sister, Martin and Anne, fast asleep with their heads propped on the table in the most uncomfortable way imaginable.

**"The witching hour, somebody had once whispered to her, was a special moment in the middle of the night when every child and every grown-up was in a deep deep sleep, and all the dark things came out from hiding and had the world to themselves."**

—**Roald Dahl**

* * *

><p>Please review!<p> 


	3. BURNING

AN: Sorry about the wait, there have been . . . difficulties, and I've actually been working on other fanfiction while doing this. Anyway, enjoy!

Changes: Not really anything.

* * *

><p>Burning<p>

**In Which Merlin Spurns the Law (again)**

_Sometime in the late 17th century—_

If the citizens of Salem, Massachusetts, could have pointed out the one person they had figured was the least likely to have had any associations with magic or the devil, their first choice would probably have been the young English schoolteacher, Matthew. He was calm, kind, pious, perhaps a little talkative, but he had more than made up for that by instilling a love of learning into his pupils. Everyone had loved his nature, perhaps seeing something likable in his blue eyes and friendly face.

But no more. Now he stood trial for the one thing everyone had thought him incapable of.

"Matthew?"

The young man, sitting tall and straight in his chair, turned to the magistrate, an imperious elder with fierce eyes and a stern mouth. He had been fond of Matthew, and loathed to be his judge. Likewise, most of the people that had crowded into the courthouse felt the squashed remains of pity.

"Matthew, you have been accused of the foul art of witchcraft. What do you plead?"

There wasn't much Matthew could have said. Everyone in town had seen him.

"Guilty, sir."

* * *

><p><em>No one knew what or who started the fire. It was a mystery that nearly cost three people their lives, and would cost a fourth.<em>

_The boy, Louis, had been washing the dishes when he smelled the smoke, a foul, acrid scent that had him dashing for the stairs to reach his sisters. Terror filled his heart as he ran._

_"Mary! Laura!" he cried."Fire! Fire!"_

_Two little girls met him in the hall, and he ran like he had never run before, his sisters streaming behind him like two people struggling to hold a straining kite. They entered the kitchen._

_And stopped. Flames raged across the floor, cutting off their access to the door. Louis spun around, almost ripping Laura's arm out of its socket, and turned towards the other door, the one at the front of the house. He had little hope; that was the direction he had smelled the smoke from._

_Sure enough, it was blocked. Their family wasn't rich enough to afford windows, so that option was out. The walls were made of thick, seasoned logs. The ground was wood also, and the foundation went deep._

_Despair cut at his heart, and he held his sisters close._

_"Louis?" Mary whimpered. "Louis!"_

_Her brother did not speak._

* * *

><p>The magistrate sighed. "Then I have no choice." He stood. "You, Matthew, are condemned to death for using magic and consorting with the devil. You are to be hanged tomorrow at midmorning. I suggest you use the intervening time to think on the severity of your crimes, and obtain peace from your Maker." The rather guilty-feeling man stepped down from his place and walked between the rows of people, his heart heavy. But he knew he was right: magic was evil. He didn't watch as burly farmers took Matthew's arms and pulled him away to be locked up.<p>

* * *

><p><em>"Fire!"<em>

_"Fire?"_

_"There's a fire at Harriet's house!"_

_"Harriet's house is on fire!"_

_"Get buckets!"_

_"Get water!"_

_The news spread like a wildfire. People streamed from all over, carrying buckets and forming water lines. But everyone knew it was hopeless. The house was engulfed in flames._

_One of the farmers turned to his neighbor in a moment of respite. "That house isn't going to make it, is it?"_

_His companion frowned, his brow furrowed and sweating from the intense heat, then he slowly shook his head._

_A sudden shriek pierced the air, and everyone turned to look; Harriet was rushing forward, having just come from a nearby town._

_"My children!" she screamed, "Where are my children?"_

_Bodies froze and extremities trembled with shock. No one had thought to search for Harriet's three offspring._

* * *

><p>Salem didn't really have a jail, more of a small, enclosed room between the courthouse and the church. It was here that Matthew was placed, to be guarded by at least four people. As the entire town watched with morbid fascination, the door closed behind him with a kind of finality, and for a moment he stood still, his face unreadable.<p>

He walked across the room to a hard chair sitting in the corner. He sat.

It was only then that he allowed himself a small smile.

Then the door opened again.

* * *

><p><em>Axes were fetched to try and cut a hole in the house, but everyone knew it would be too late. Fire was everywhere. If the children hadn't already been burned, they had certainly succumbed to the smoke.<em>

_Bucket after bucket was drawn from the well and passed, hand to hand, to the house, dumped, then back, repeat. Water sizzled and steam joined the scorching smoke in the air. Shovels threw dirt on the licking red tongues, smothering some, but it was not enough._  
><em>Matthew was standing in between the reverend's wife and the shoemaker, his face blackened and concentrated, the expression like he was thinking fast.<em>  
><em>He stopped, ignoring the bucket the reverend's wife held.<em>  
><em>"Matthew!" she snapped, "Take it!"<em>  
><em>"They're going to die," he whispered, almost to himself. "Yes . . . yes, I think that would work."<em>  
><em>And he suddenly darted away.<em>  
><em>"Matthew!"<em>  
><em>There was no answer.<em>

* * *

><p>The door opened with a squeak of rarely oiled hinges and old wood. Matthew looked up in silent surprise. There, silhouetted in the dying light, was Louis, Harriet's oldest child. He was still streaked with ash and reeked of smoke, but he was alive.<p>

The door slipped closed again.

Nothing was said for many moments as the two young men watched the other's movements. Louis' hesitation was understandable: he _was_ facing an accused sorcerer with no protection, but Matthew's was strange, like he was also a little frightened.

Suddenly Louis spoke up. "Why'd you do it?" he demanded. "Why did you out yourself to the whole town? No one would have suspected if you had just not done anything."

"You and your sisters were in danger."

"So?"

"I may be a sorcerer, but I have a heart. I have a conscience, and, if I do say so myself, I'm a good person. I'm not about to let three people die so I can live." Matthew leaned forward slightly. "You knew that there was no way out of that house. I knew there was no way, everyone knew there was no way. What was I to do?"

Louis said nothing, obviously stumped by this argument. He knew Matthew's heart, and had never really doubted it.

"Anyway," Matthew continued, "I don't think that is really why you're here. Don't you have something else to ask me?"

Louis jerked and stared. "Wha– how—"

The former schoolteacher smiled. "Magic, remember?" he said.

* * *

><p><em>The magistrate had been standing very near the house when Matthew ran up, panting, black hair ruffling in the inferno, his eyes looking at each inch of the house, up and down and left and right. He looked about to lay an egg with his concentration. He had no bucket, and no axe, and no shovel, but the magistrate knew he must have been there for a reason, so he simply watched him out of the corner of his eye.<em>

_For a moment anyway. What Matthew did next caught everyone's attention._

_First he stopped in front of an apparently normal section of wall, and nodded, which was odd. Then (and this was very strange) he pointed at the wall, and, while speaking strange words, he made a circling motion with his finger._

_There was a loud _crack!

_Matthew suddenly pulled his hand backward, and the wall mirrored his movement, crunching out of the house with barely a grumble._

_Everybody who could this froze in disbelief, jaws dropping and eyes widening. Matthew ignored them all. He dropped the wall on the ground like you might drop a useless cherry pit. By time the watching masses could compute what had occurred, he had climbed over the rubble into the stinging smoke._

"_It's open!" someone cried. "It's open!"_

* * *

><p>As Louis turned to leave, he frowned and returned his eyes on his teacher. "Answer me one more question. You can do magic. You can do <em>anything<em>. You could have gotten in and out of there without being seen. So why show everyone when you didn't have to?"

Matthew laughed. "I'd hoped you would catch that. You always were clever. And you're right; I do have an ulterior motive."

"And what is that?"

"I'm done with this town, it's getting too dangerous for anyone with magic. I've done what I can to help, now I've decided to leave. And when I saw that house on fire, it just hit me — this would be a perfect opportunity to go out with a bang. Oh, don't get me wrong, I would have saved you and your sisters anyway, but if you had woken in the wood, when you had been in the house, with no idea of how you had gotten there . . . who knows what would have happened, who might have been accused?" He smiled widely. "So, I'm going to escape. Later."

"Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? They'll look for you everywhere!"

"Yes," the man said simply, "I know. They won't find me. Or you, either."

* * *

><p><em>One of the cobbler's sons found Matthew first. He was carefully easing one of the girls off the ground, carrying her bridal style. Her siblings still lay comatose. Several other men came, one almost snatching the girl from Matthew's arms, another taking her sister, and still two more picking up Louis. The cobbler took Matthew's arm and dragged him outside. He was given no chance to escape. Not that he really needed one. Rope was found, to bind his hands, and, still grimy from the fire and coughing from the smoke, they all trooped towards the courthouse.<em>

* * *

><p>"You, you really meant it then? You'll take me with you?"<p>

"Of course, I wouldn't abandon you to the noose, that's what you'll get for your magic," Matthew replied. "But remember, _we are stopping at your mother's tent to get her permission_, alright?"

The younger man sighed. "Yes, but I told you she already agreed—"

"Just being cautious, Louis. I don't want to be branded a kidnapper."

"Mother doesn't want me hanged for my magic anymore than she wants to see you hanged," Louis said firmly. "And besides, she is going to tell them you kidnapped me anyway. For some sort of black ritual."

Matthew's head dropped into his hands. "Lovely. Just _lovely._"

**"So light a fire!"**

**"Yes . . . of course . . . but there's no wood!"**

**"HAVE YOU GONE MAD! ARE YOU A WITCH OR NOT!"**

— **J.K. Rowling**

* * *

><p>The next chapter should be up quite soon (I mean it this time;).<p>

Please tell me what you thought!


	4. BEGINNINGS 1

AN: I wasn't going to post this until Friday, but it was done, so why not? Set after Series Three, so disregards both Series' Four and Five (So Uther's still alive and all that).

Changes: I removed some parts I thought were unnecessary, and fixed the writing a little. Oh, and changed the subtitle.

* * *

><p>Beginnings 1<p>

**In ****Which ****Words ****Can ****Be ****Misleading**

_Not __long __after __Morgana__'__s __betrayal_

The girl falls to the ground with a thump, whimpering and scooting away from her towering father. Anyone who knows this girl, knows she is normally strong-minded and afraid of nothing. But now she has been broken. She cowers away from the sharp blade her father holds, quivering; he will kill her for what she did, this she is certain of.

The king's face almost glows with barely controlled anger as he gazes down on his youngest child with hate and clenched teeth.

"Never," he hisses, "never have I seen such disloyalty. You are my daughter! How could you betray me like that? I raised you, I loved you, I cared for you. What did I do wrong?"

The girl says nothing to contradict his claims, too far gone to care. She is frightened, frightened to the edge of her wits, and so her father's words register rather vaguely.

"If this world had any _justice_," he spits, "then you would have never been born. And now, I will right the mistake I made all those years ago."

The sword lifts, ready to stab. The girl turns her face to the floor.

"STOP!"

The king spins around, eyes narrowing, wondering who would dare interrupt his little 'heart-to-heart' with his daughter.

It is none other than the servant himself. The man who pushed his daughter to her betrayal. The king snarls.

"You," he says, "you."

A sword hangs loosely in the servant's hand. It has been recently used, and by the tense stance the man is taking, he is ready to use it again.

The king sees this, and almost laughs. Does the servant think he can beat years of experience with desperation? He is a fool, and will be dealt with accordingly.

"You wish to protect her?" the king questions. "She has done nothing to earn your trust. Why would you save her from a fate she deserves?"

The servant trembles with some indefinable emotion, shaking with it and not showing it more than an inch. His face is blank, but his voice is full of his pain as he replies, "I will not allow one more of my kin to fall at your hand."

He reaches up a hand and carefully unties his neckerchief. He removes it. He steps closer, and tosses the piece of cloth at the king's feet in challenge.

He raises the sword.

Less than a mile away and five days earlier, the servant awakes with a start.

* * *

><p><strong>Five <strong>**Days ****Ago**

"_Ah__-__choo__!"_

"For heaven's sake, Merlin, will you quiet down? I'm trying to concentrate."

"Sorry, Sire. I'm sure my congested nose will stop sneezing, _just_ for you."

Arthur sends his manservant a glare that would pin most to the floor, but not Merlin. He continues folding the clothes with almost smug obliviousness.

Arthur huffs and looks back at the paperwork in front of him (boring, boring, _boring_ paperwork), trying to focus on the words in front of him. But it is one of those perfect days, bright, sunny, and invigorating. He could be training, or talking with Guinevere, teasing Merlin — oh wait, he does that anyway — not sitting here looking over tax reports. _Boring_.

There is a barely audible rap on the door, a timid knock. Arthur raises his head quickly, because anything is a welcome distraction, and calls, "Come in!"

The door opens carefully, and in comes a servant boy, nervous and quite green (in more ways than one). He keeps his head down and in his hand is a letter.

"What do you want?" the Prince Regent demands. He can see the letter, but he wants the servant to speak, to show some guts. He can almost hear Merlin rolling his eyes, not to mention stifling another sneeze.

"Uh, sire, I'm supposed to deliver this message to you," the boy stammers.

Arthur waits. The boy doesn't move. Eventually, the Prince says tiredly, "Are you going to bring it over? Or must I read it from here?"

This does the trick. The servant jumps, races forward, and places the letter in Arthur's waiting hand.

"Thank you. You may go."

The door closes, and swift footfalls can be heard.

Merlin turns, his eyes both sympathetic and accusing. "That wasn't very nice," he says.

Arthur snorts, opening the letter. "Easy for you to say. You aren't stuck in this boring room with mounds of paperwork to do, bound by a sense of duty. You can leave if you wish."

"Why don't you take a break?"

"_Wonderful_ idea, Merlin, just amazing. Then I'd come back to even more work and less time to do it." He rolled his eyes. "I don't think so."

"It might make you just a little less grumpy," Merlin observes, then laughs. "If that's possible."

Arthur says nothing, seemingly quite absorbed in the letter. Anyone but Merlin might not notice the warning signs, a slight widening in the eyes, a straightening of the shoulders, a tightening of the mouth, and he almost groans. This will be bad news.

"What is it?" he says warily. "Go on, just say it, get it over with."

Arthur looks up resignedly. "This letter must have gone temporarily astray," he says. "It's from King Olaf. He wants to come visit—tomorrow."

Merlin's jaw drops. "Seriously? That soon?"

"Yes." Then the Prince sighs. "And guess what? He's bringing his daughter, Vivian, with him."

* * *

><p>There isn't a table in the tent, just an enormous map spread on the ground, surrounded by cushions. On these pillows sit about nine men. One of them, a red-haired man in his late thirties, is talking animatedly.<p>

" . . . and swoop in to take the city. All of Albion will fall in the face of our combined magic!"

He is obviously the leader here, tall and charismatic, with cold blue eyes that no one cares to look at. He has a pale, pointy face, and there is a strange air about him, as if he isn't quite human.

The other men are Druids, drawn by the promises of freedom and prosperity. Casting their vows of pacifism aside, they are attending this meeting in hopes of even a violent end to an already bloody conflict between them and an increasing number of kingdoms.

"Are you sure this will work, Camlach?" one of the men questions, doubtfully. "Others have tried to take Camelot before, it's never worked."

Camlach smiles. "Don't worry about that, Ganion, my army will not fail."

A man peeks through the tent flaps. "There's someone to see you, sir," he says.

Camlach nods and stands. "Excuse me for a moment."

He goes outside, and is led to the very edge of the camp. Here he spies a nervous horse and cloaked rider.

The messenger leaves quickly, and then Camlach knows the man's identity.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't my good-for-nothing brother, Ambrosius," he says, almost smirking. "To what do I owe this great pleasure?"

Ambrosius lowers his hood. He has darker hair, but his eyes are just as startlingly blue, his figure just as inhuman. "Not a pleasure for me, Camlach. I heard what you were doing and came as quickly as I could." He leans in closer, his face intent. "What are you thinking, Camlach? Are you mad? Don't you know this is foolish?"

Camlach scoffs. "Hardly," he replies. "I'm just taking what is rightfully ours. Those Pendragons have had us magic-users in their shadow for too long."

"You can never defeat them. _Nimueh_ couldn't beat them, what makes you think you stand a chance?"

"She didn't have the manpower."

"You and I both know it wasn't the lack of manpower that eventually stopped her."

Camlach glares, something very akin to hate filling his every feature. His brother has mentioned _him_. The forbidden topic. Well, Camlach will show him. He isn't weak.

A dagger flashes. Ambrosius gasps, his face screwing up in the pain and surprise, and he slumps forward. Camlach catches him, and lays him on the ground.

"Good-bye, brother," the man says, wrenching the dagger out of still-living flesh.

He feels no remorse.

* * *

><p><strong>Four <strong>**Days**

"Arthur!"

"Princess Vivian," Arthur responds formally, trying to extricate his hand from the girl's clinging grasp. "How absolutely marvelous to see you again."

Merlin is torn between amusement at their antics, and sympathy, for the girl is obviously still infatuated with the golden prince.

It is at this moment that King Olaf slips fully off his horse, stretching just slightly. He is watching the two young people with a rather resigned, if annoyed, expression.

"Where is your father, young prince?" the king demands, striding forward. "I'd like to speak with him."

Here Arthur smiles apologetically. "My father is not well enough to have visitors at the moment. Later, perhaps."

Disgruntled, the king nods, and the royal party moves inside.

* * *

><p>Arthur takes one last sip from his goblet and sets it back on the table. Dinner is over. He and the king have had a private supper, meaning the only occupants of the room are him, Olaf, Vivian, Merlin, and another servant. Arthur, for one, has spent the entire dinner feeling very uncomfortable, trying to ignore Vivian's adoring looks and 'discreet' smiles. It doesn't help that she is sitting right next to him. But now he focuses his attention wholly on Olaf and speaks his mind.<p>

"You say this is just a social visit, but I don't think you're telling the full truth, Olaf." The Prince Regent leans forward, intent and not to be denied. "Why are you really here?"

Olaf laughs. "Just as sharp as your father, aren't you? Yes, you're right, I do have a reason."

"What is this reason?"

The king looks away, towards the servant. "You may leave," and then suggests that Vivian get ready for bed. His eyes now turn on Merlin, who almost groans. Must he always miss out on the interesting conversations?

Arthur comes to his rescue. "Anything you have to say, you may say in front of Merlin. He has my complete trust."

Obviously Olaf isn't entirely convinced, but he doesn't argue, just shrugs and lowers his voice slightly. "As you know, Cymru is just to the west of my kingdom. Just as most of the kingdoms surrounding Camelot, King Vortigern despises magic, and bans it with almost the same heat as your father has. Although, quite recently, we have heard . . . disturbing rumors."

Arthur's fair brow creases. "What kind of rumors?"

Olaf hesitates. "Rumors of . . . some sort of magical army that is amassing, planning on conquering Albion and bringing the Old Religion back into the hearts of men."

The Prince's jaw clenches. "Through force?" Merlin knows Arthur is remembering the carnage left over from Morgana's reign, and the innocent civilians shot down in the streets. Would they have to go through this again?

Olaf nods worriedly. "Apparently, though I'm sure if we surrendered they would spare us. Not that I'm going to _ever_ do that," he adds defiantly, then sobers. "It is my belief, and the belief of many of my spies, that the army will march for Camelot first. Take out the heart of anti-sorcery, and thus destroy us from the inside. Although, whoever they attack first, we all must be ready. Magic is not easy to combat."

"Do we know anything of their leaders?" Arthur asks.

"As far as I have been able to ascertain, they are led by a man named Camlach."

It was a good thing no one is looking at Merlin, or they would have noticed his almost guilty reaction, a stiffening of his entire body, his face rearranging in shock, eyes wide.

_No__ . . . __it __can__'__t __be__ . . . __not __him__ . . ._

* * *

><p><strong>Three <strong>**Days**

The next morning, Merlin coughs.

What attracts Arthur's attention to this particular cough is not that it had happened while he was trying to concentrate. In fact, Merlin has been coughing all morning, but this was different. This sounded . . . wet. And Arthur knows enough about deadly illnesses to know that wet coughs were very, very bad.

He looks up, raising an eyebrow. "Have you been to Gaius about that cold of yours, Merlin? It's sounding a little worrisome." He searches for a plausible excuse for his interest. "Besides, with this supposed magical army coming towards Camelot, you'll need to be in peak condition." Even though it had only been a last night that King Olaf had brought the new, already reports are coming in from the west and north, bringing news of the approaching army.

Merlin laughs shortly, sniffing. "Do you think I could hide this from Gaius? What kind of physician do you think he is? He's shoved remedy after remedy down my throat. Nothing helps."

Arthur opens his mouth to offer some sage (and no doubt mostly useless) advice, when there comes a brisk knock on the door. "Come in!" calls the Prince.

It is Sir Leon.

"Your Majesty, there are two young villagers, from the north-east, they wish to speak with you in the throne room as soon as possible. They say it's about the magical army."

Arthur stands. "Of course, I'll be there right away."

No one questions that Merlin will follow, trailing closely behind the two. The three speak little as they walk.

Gaius appears at the end of the hall, walking swiftly in their direction.

"Ah, Gaius, just the man," calls Arthur. "There's some news on the army in the throne room, why don't you join us?"

Gaius looks at a vial he holds in his hands. "Alright, if you would take this to the King, Merlin," placing the bottle in his ward's unwilling palms.

"But—"

"No buts, Uther needs it now."

"Don't worry, Merlin, we'll make sure to tell you _everything_ that happens." Despite his taunting words, Arthur would have rather kept Merlin there. But Gaius is almost as good from his standpoint, and better from anyone else's, so Merlin sighs and turns away, heading for the royal bedchambers. His coughing chases them down the halls as they move farther apart.

As they walk, Arthur asks himself the question he has asked many times over the last few days: _How __do __you __defeat __an __army __of __sorcerers__?_

They'd gone against Cornelius Sigan. They'd defeated an un-dead army and an immortal army. But this, this was something else. Both the armies had been dependant on one magical object, and so easily defeated. Sigan had been powerful, but he had been only one man. Morgause and Morgana may have had an immortal army, but they were only two people, and two people can be beaten if it is gone about in the right way. But a _whole __army__?_ How was it possible?

Several solutions have presented themselves and been discarded already. But now they have reached the throne room. It is the moment of truth.

They are both very young, obviously brother and sister, with shared red hair and blue eyes. The boy can't be older than twenty, and girl looks about sixteen. They have the look in their eyes of the hunted, the frightened, the fugitive.

Arthur moves forward, examining his two guests, and being examined in return. The girl, especially, watches him with a careful eye, noting his every move.

_They__'__re__scared__,_ he realizes, _and __with __good __reason__, __if __half __of __the __reports __are __to __be __believed__._

"How may I help you two?" he asks; might as well be polite, something he is not really famous for.

The boy answers promptly, defying his timid exterior.

"We have traveled from the north of your kingdom, sire. We have bad news."

"About the army?"

"The magical army, yes."

"What is it then?"

A short shared look between siblings, and the boy continues, "Our village was destroyed by the sorcerers, sire, completely obliterated. We weren't at home, obviously, but we returned to find everything gone, in flames . . ."

He stops, swallowing and looking away. A look of anger crosses his face. Arthur, getting an awful mental image, doesn't blame him.

His sister speaks now, stronger and slightly louder. "Gary—that's my brother, of course—decided to follow them, hoping for clues about their destination. And we found some alright," she nods, eyes narrowing and chin jutting forward. "We know where they're heading next, _and_ after that."

The audience seems to hold its breath, waiting for this crucial piece of information. Every eye rested on the girl, but it was Gary that speaks.

"The Forest of Ascetir, sire. That's where they're going."

Of all the things Arthur had been expecting, this had not been one of them. "The Forest of Ascetir?" he parrots.

"That's what he just said!" the girl snaps, almost as if she was unable to stop herself. Her brother elbows her and she blushes, turning away.

"Do you know why?" the Prince inquires, being used to insolence by now.

Something happens, right then and there, a sort of absolute certainty he is being lied to. Gary speaks words of a negative nature, and the girl shakes her head, but Arthur's gut nags at him, pushes at him.

He doesn't call them on it, though, instead asking about the second location.

"Then they will come towards Camelot."

Alarm bells start going off in Arthur's head. Something doesn't add up, it makes no sense. He thanks the two for their help and instructs one of the guards to find accommodations for them.

He doesn't notice this, but the girl watches him as they leave.

Now it is just him, Leon, and Gaius in the room. This suits Arthur fine, though something deep notes the absence of his 'shadow'.

"It doesn't make sense, Gaius."

"No, it does not, sire."

"They are coming from Cymru. That's on the west of Camelot. They're heading for the Forest of Ascetir, which is on the east of Camelot. They go around the north border. It's like they're _trying_ to avoid us!"

"What's so important about the Forest that they want to go there before they come here?" questions Leon.

Gaius gasps, "Oh!" he cries. "Oh, of course!" He has gone very pale.

"What?"

The physician jumps slightly, as if he has forgotten the presence of spectators. "Oh, er, nothing," he stammers; Arthur has never seen him so unraveled. "Really. I was thinking of something else entirely."

"Right." This is spoken in complete skepticism on Arthur's part, but as usual, he lets it drop.

For about two seconds, the three men speak not at all, sunk deep in their own thoughts.

Then Arthur has an idea. A horrible idea.

"Didn't the spies say that Camlach was recruiting Druid tribes?" This prompts a nod. "Well, there's a tribe in the Forest, isn't there? What if that's what he wants, enemies that know the land better than he does."

Gaius nods, his eyebrows drawing together. "Maybe," is his only reply. "Maybe."

* * *

><p>Screams.<p>

Crashing.

And fire, obviously.

_How __cliche__. __Camlach __always __had __a __flair __for __the __dramatic__._

She strides forward, wanting to get to him before everything is gone, before everything is destroyed, even as she knows she is far, far too late.

_Should __have __let __him __drown __in __that __stream__. __Should __never __have __fished __him __out__._

She shook off these thoughts, screaming herself hoarse instead. "Camlach! Camlach!"

He's there. He will hear her, this she knows.

And then there he is. He hasn't changed much over the years, still red-haired and blue-eyed, still wild and mad as a March hare. The usual. Almost boring. Except this isn't boring, not at all.

"Please, Camlach," she pleads, "it's me you want, leave everyone else alone!"

But he simply raises an eyebrow, unaffected. "Long time no see. Miss me?"

"Not really," she says, unfamiliar anger burning everywhere. She wants to let her magic out, but it has been years since the last time, and she was never very powerful anyway. "But that's not the point. These people are innocent. If you want me for your twisted experiments, take me, and leave them _alone_."

He has moved closer, so scarily close, closer than they ever were emotionally. "I don't think so," he breathes, and even with the awful noise she can hear him, always, always, always hearing his cruelty, never escaping it. "They have to go. Can't have witnesses, now, can we. I always make sure there are none."

She doesn't even see the dagger, but she knows what has happened when there is a blinding pain and the urge to curl up and save her energy, her life-blood. Camlach grabs her in the same way he grabbed Ambrosius (not that she knows this), and set her down. But, unlike with Ambrosius, he asks a question.

"Where is your son?"

She doesn't answer.

"Where is he? Where is Merlin?"

He hit her too close to the heart. She is dead in minutes.

Camlach drops Hunith's body, almost distastefully. Now he'll have to change again.

He is just about to go look for the boy when a thought hits him. Of course Merlin wouldn't be here. Of course he would never stay in a go-nowhere village like Ealdor. He would want to be someone. Become something.

"No way," Camlach whispers, and his eyes turn towards Camelot.

* * *

><p>"So, where are we going?"<p>

"The Forest of Ascetir, and it is me, Lancelot and Gwaine, not you in any way shape or form."

Merlin stares. This is a first. "What? But I always come with you!"

Arthur is unmovable. "And this time you are staying here. Gaius says you're too ill to go anywhere. You'd give us away with a sneeze."

Ignoring the fact that he can barely talk, his throat is so sore, Merlin presses onward. "I could stay with the horses. Carry the luggage. Anything! Just let me come."

"Absolutely not. Why are you so anxious to follow me around, anyway?"

Merlin mumbles something about his duty. He does not mention that he does not want Arthur going anywhere near Camlach, even with his protection. He does not mention that the last time he met Camlach, Merlin nearly ended up dead. He does not mention the bad feeling he has had for the last several hours.

He doesn't mention the dream, either. The dream confused him. Why? _Why__?_ That really is the question, isn't it? And something he had said in the dream, something that made his blood run cold with fear . . .

He does not voice this, not even to Gaius. But he thinks it. Constantly. And he is afraid, always, because of the dream. Because it should not ever happen.

Arthur is speaking. "Well, hang duty, you're ill. I'm leaving tomorrow morning, and you're staying here." He turns and stabs one finger sharply. "I mean it, Merlin; if you dare follow . . ."

He doesn't continue. The threat is clear.

For many minutes both work in silence, then there is a soft knock on the door, and it creaks open timidly.

It's Gwen. She looked between the two surprised men, and even with her dark skin, they can see her redden.

"I'll come back later . . ."

"No!" Arthur says quickly, stepping forward. He lowers his voice slightly. "How may we be of help, milady?"

The young woman smiled slightly. "I heard you were leaving. Just wanted to say good-bye."

Merlin gets the hint faster this time. "Right," says he, striding towards the door. "I'd better . . . go get . . ."

The door closes.

Gwen almost laughs, and looks at the floor. "How is he feeling?" she questions. "I heard he was ill."

"Gaius fears he has pneumonia."

Her eyebrows draw together. "That could be very bad."

"Yes, well, nothing Gaius does is having an effect. He says Merlin shouldn't be working, but you know Merlin. He just won't stop."

"No consideration for his health, of course." They both chuckle softly. This whole time they have been moving closer, and now Arthur wraps his arms around her. As much as he may show an unruffled exterior, he knows he might be injured on this mission. Who knows what sort of spells sorcerers have for detecting eavesdroppers? He doesn't. But, in the actually rather likely event that he doesn't return, he wants to hug his lady love one last time.

"I don't want you to go," she whispers.

"I must."

There is a soft sigh. "I know. But you'd better come back alive, because I want that wedding . . ."

The door chooses this moment to open. Arthur and Gwen break apart, from surprise more than anything. In the doorway is Princess Vivian, looking shocked. For one moment she stands there, blinking furiously, then the door is closed violently. Dramatically.

The two look at each other. "Uh-oh," Gwen mutters.

* * *

><p><strong>Early <strong>**in ****the ****morning**

Someone is up early in Camelot, someone with light feet and the intent of sneaking somewhere. Guards don't notice this dark figure, who slinks from shadow to shadow, moving down dim corridors until it reaches one particular door. This door isn't locked, but opens soundlessly into a room so dark you wouldn't see your hand in front of your face.

Soft footfalls move across the cold stone floor. A slight "_oof__!_", but quiet; the bed was closer than the person had expected. It sits on the edge, feels, finds the face on the pillow, and kisses it.

There is a loud thumping, like someone who has been woken in an unexpected manner, and is struggling to escape. A gasp emanates from nearby, and a candle sparks to life. A person, with an inordinate amount of red hair, sits up quickly, grasps the candle, and holds it up high.

"Gaheris!" she cries.

Vivian pulls away, looking slightly dazed. Said Gaheris, having sat up and scooted away quickly, is gasping and staring in complete incomprehension.

"Wha— what was that for?" he demands when he got his breath back.

Vivian gazes at him, then turns to his sister. She is obviously very confused.

The sad truth is, poor Vivian took a wrong turn. She had meant to reach the Prince's chambers, but had instead ended up in the temporary quarters of these two guests.

And now she can't seem to wrap her head around the fact.

"I—wha— how—"

"Yes, we were wondering that too," the sister almost snaps. "Do you make a habit of walking into people's bedrooms and kissing them senseless?"

Flustered and bewildered, Vivian stands. Her eyebrows draw together, then release. She frowns. Then, without further ado, she walks out and closes the door behind her.

There is a moment of disbelieving silence. Then, "Niniane."

"Yes, Gary?"

"Did that really happen?"

"As unbelievable as it may seem at anyone would want to kiss you, dear brother, yes, that did just happen."

* * *

><p>They have been riding for barely half a day, and already they can smell the smoke. This seriousness effectively shut Gwaine up, which meant the silence really started to grate on Arthur's nerves. The forest is suspiciously quiet, as well. Arthur can't help but be nervous about what they might find; the death and destruction, something he's never quite gotten used to, even with call his experience. The Prince is constantly on the alert, scanning ahead with his ears pricked, hand resting on his sword hilt. Gwaine and Lancelot also sit tense and ready.<p>

It is because of this that they notice the approaching figure before she actually comes into sight. Her footsteps drag, halting and uneven, her breathing loud and hitching with tears. She carries nothing but herself. She is so covered with mud, filth, and blood that it takes Arthur several seconds to recognize her.

This woman he never knew the name of, only that she was the wife of a man named Matthew, and that she had worked hard to push Kanan and his men away, especially after her husband had fallen to a calculated arrow. When he knows that this is who she is, Arthur calls a greeting.

She stares at the three of them, frightened, obviously quite alone in the dark, dank forest.

"Do you recognize me?" Arthur asks carefully, and her head tilts. The two Knights exchange curious glances, and she gasps.

"Prince Arthur!" she cries, and stumbles forward. "Thank heavens you've come!"

Arthur dismounts, followed by Gwaine and Lancelot, and is barely fast enough to catch her when she falls. The woman—why can't he remember her name?—is sobbing, clutching at his shirt, her eyes closed. Her lips move in prayer, or pity, or both perhaps, and she trembles like a wind-blown leaf.

"What happened?" Arthur asks. "Can you tell me what happened?"

It takes several minutes before she can talk, and then he almost wishes she hadn't. "They came out nowhere, we had no warning, no way to defend ourselves. Everyone, _everyone_ died. I don't know why they didn't kill me, they must have made a mistake, but I looked, no one else breathed." Her tear-stained lashes lower, and fresh sobs shook her. "Not even—not even Hunith."

For one moment, Arthur considered the possibility that the woman was wrong, lying, or mistaken, anything but considering the idea that he would have to go back to Camelot and tell Merlin that his beloved mother was dead. This hopeless illusion disintegrated within seconds.

Her name is Rowena, it turns out, and she has no place to go, so, after a few more questions, they sit her in the front of Arthur's horse, and gallop away. They have all the information they need. The army is heading towards Camelot. Right. Now.

* * *

><p>Two women walk in a forest. One black-haired, the other brunette. One blue-eyed, the other brown. One sensuous and curvy, the other almost girlish in her modest appearance. One hard-faced and experienced, the other honest and sweet, though just as knowledgeable. One wears a tattered red dress, the other a beautiful (if rather wet) black-and-purple gown. Both have blue crystals that hang around their necks. Both do not quite belong in our world. Both have magic. And both have left the Gates of Avalon behind for one purpose.<p>

To preserve the World of Men.

* * *

><p>The horses' hooves pound with near the same anxiety that beats in Arthur's heart. The army will reach the city in less than a day at the rate they are moving, so they have to be fast.<p>

Looking ahead, he sees another rider, also bearing the golden dragon, riding like the wind towards them. As they near, the rider holds up a hand, and cries, "Sire! Wait!"

The Prince, loathe as he is to waste any time, slows down. The messenger—they can now see that is what this man was—meets them about half-way, his horse groaning, him gasping; they have obviously been riding hard for a while.

"Sire," the man says breathlessly, "I bring grave news I'm afraid."

"What? What is it?" A darkness seems to creep into Arthur's chest, making it hard to breathe, to hear what was said next.

"It's, it's your father, sire," the man replies, his face set in lines of dread. "He's dead."

**"****Darkness ****cannot ****drive ****out ****darkness****; ****only ****light ****can ****do ****that****. ****Hate ****cannot ****drive ****out ****hate****; ****only ****love ****can ****do ****that****."**

— **Martin ****Luther ****King ****Jr****.**

* * *

><p>To be continued . . .<p>

Nobody: Hello there! I'm glad you liked it:)

Thanks for reading! Please review!


	5. BEGINNINGS 2

AN: Part Two of Beginnings! Enjoy!

Changes: This one I actually added a little bit to, because I felt some things needed a little more explanation. (And I changed the subtitle)

* * *

><p>Beginnings 2<p>

**In ****Which ****Dreams ****Can ****Be ****Absolutely ****True**

_Not __long __after __Morgana__'__s __betrayal_

**Day ****Two**

The army lies in a strategically picked hollow about five miles from the main road, hidden by trees and rolling hills. As the two sorceresses observe from the brush, they see there are at least one hundred magic users present, not to mention the creatures and monsters Camlach has recruited. There are three giants, cockatrices locked in cages, griffins controlled by powerful spells, a vampire or two, and they had stopped bothering to count the Sidhe after they'd reached three hundred.

"Who are we kidding?" Nimueh mutters, straightening her shoulders and scowling. "Camelot stands no chance against this lot."

Freya doesn't answer, but she is inclined to agree. She's seen what 'this lot' can do, and it isn't pretty. Devastation, murder, burned villages, it is mass genocide and although she hadn't liked it from the moment she'd heard, she hadn't known what to do.

And then Nimueh had come, just as infuriated with her own helplessness. As the two were, you know, _dead_, not much could be done except visit Camlach's kind sister-in-law and bargain a trade for those pretty crystal necklaces that allowed the dead to return to life for a set amount of time.

Speaking of which . . . Freya's eyes glance down at the necklace. Still mostly full, thank heavens, but she imagines they don't have more than three days or so.

"I understand our situation, Nimueh," the girl speaks quietly, "and I know you do as well. You don't want Camlach massacring innocents any more than I do. So, even if we fail, I say we still try."

Back at the Gates between Avalon and the World of Men, Nimueh had confessed the desire to see Uther Pendragon meet his doom in a slow, messy manner, but also stated she didn't want his subjects to have to endure the same torment, nor would she care to see Camlach as their ruler.

"He's made enough a mess of his share of Avalon, if you ask me," she had whispered—all in Freya's confidence, of course.

Ah yes. Camlach's share of Avalon. This is said because he is actually king over half of the Fairy Land. The Unseelie Half, of course, the part that is home to the more unsavory magical creatures and rebellious fairies. As the younger brother, this lot fell to Camlach when his father died, but now, with Ambrosius gone, the two un-dead sorceresses suppose he will take control of the Seelie Court, as well.

Nimueh's sigh brings Freya out of her reverie. "I guess there's nothing for it," she mutters sourly. "We'll have to ask for _his_ help."

Freya raises an eyebrow, wary already. "And who would _he_ be?"

Nimueh makes a face. "None other than the man who killed me."

* * *

><p>It is dark when they finally arrive in the city, having paused only to rest the horses. Rowena is dozing lightly, feeling better after a meal.<p>

The messenger didn't say much about the circumstances behind the king's death, saying only, "I think you should ask Gaius, Sire, he would know better than anyone what happened, and I don't think you'll like it anyway." So Arthur didn't even have any idea how his father had died. The two knights, thankfully, kept the sympathetic looks to a minimum; both had lost their fathers as well.

When they finally canter into the courtyard, Gaius is there, looking grave and worried. Without a word, he gestures to Arthur, who is looking at him over his shoulder while helping Rowena off his horse, and the Prince follows cautiously.

"I am sorry for your loss, Sire," Gaius speaks courteously, "but you should know, his death was perfectly natural."

"Natural?"

"Yes. He was weak, and I was foolish, I'm afraid. I should have been more careful."

"What do you mean? Were there symptoms?"

"No, none," the old man replies, "the disease came and worked remarkably fast, but that is the only unusual thing about it." He slows to a stop, and looks Arthur straight in the face. "I'll be honest with you, Arthur. It actually seemed a little _too_ fast, but there was nothing I could have done even if it had been slow. The medicine didn't work with Merlin, who is young and healthy, so clearly it would not work with your older father."

A thrill of foreboding comes. "Merlin?"

Gaius starts walking again, almost avoiding Arthur's eye. "The fact of the matter is . . . it is Merlin that got your father ill. The same symptoms, the same illnesses, and I was foolish enough to let Merlin come in contact with your father. I haven't mentioned this fact to anyone, not even Merlin, but he knows an odd coincidence when he sees one. He feels terribly guilty."

Arthur can think of absolutely nothing to say.

* * *

><p>"Milady?"<p>

Princess Vivian, lost in her own thoughts and feelings, jumps at her maid's voice, turning rapidly.

"What is it?" She doesn't mean to sound quite so peevish, but she has had a long day and had to do hard thinking this morning. Everyone now knows of the army that comes towards the city, the death of the King, and the apparent hopelessness of the situation.

"Your father has requested your presence for dinner, Milady. You should be dressing now," the maid continues timidly; she knows of her mistress's fierce temper.

Vivian's brow scrunches, and she turns away again, thinking fast.

"Tell my father I am ill," she says, softer this time, "and that I will take my dinner in my room."

The maid bows and leaves the room. As the princess listens to the retreating footfalls, she again ponders her dilemma.

_What __to __do__, __what __to __do__ . . . __how __to __act__, __what __to __say__, __where __to __go__ . . ._ Never has she had such a difficult conundrum, and she cannot simply go to her father for help. Ever since last night, when she had mistakenly wandered into the guest room instead of the Prince's (_Why__would__I__ever__want__to__kiss__him__anyway__? __We__hate__each__other__!_), her brain has felt much clearer than it ever had, and she knew every possible course of action. Several led to certain death, some led to possible death, some to exile or banishment, or other harsh treatments.

_What __to __do__ . . . __what __to __do__ . . ._

* * *

><p>Terribly guilty may be a bit of an understatement for the way Merlin is feeling. He has hid himself in a secluded corner. For the last several days, ever since his strange dream, he has been feeling very . . . fragile, almost. The death of the king had only compounded that, making him shiver and struggle not to break down and cry in front of everyone. He has never felt anything like this before, not when his father or Will died, not when Morgana disappeared, never. And he doesn't care for the feeling.<p>

Everything, the awful dream, the strange feelings, and the whispered rumors of war were all a little too much for him. So Merlin hid.

And he softly wept.

Exactly why he cries may never be known. A compendium of hurts and wrongs and terrors, perhaps, tearing his heart and emotions into threads little at a time, until he needs to let it out somehow. And since avenging himself is out of the question—he knows what havoc he can wreak in anger—he must simply do it quietly. Quickly. Out of the way.

The red-headed sister finds him so easily, you might suppose she is looking for him, which she sort of is, having been drawn by his muffled sobs and hitching breaths. She rounds the corner, hair trailing down in a long braid.

She stops; she stares; she speaks.

"Merlin?"

The servant looks up, startled, automatically brushing tears away. "Niniane?" is his reply.

* * *

><p>Arthur steps out into the hall and closes the door behind him. He is feeling almost unemotional right now, sort of blank and empty. He has just seen his father, and decides to never think of that moment in the room again. He has also decided that the conversation with Gaius in the hall must be repressed until he has found Merlin and can talk about it with him. Arthur may be the Prince - King - but he is still human, and susceptible to strong emotion.<p>

Gwaine and Lancelot are standing by the wall, and they move closer.

"Where is Merlin?" Arthur asks abruptly. "I need to tell him . . ."

He doesn't say it. He doesn't want to say it twice.

Gwaine shakes his head. "Can't find him. I asked several people, but it seems our friend has vanished."

"Don't worry, we'll find him," Lancelot says quickly, seeing Arthur's usually guarded face give way to clear worry. "He wouldn't have gone far." But inside the knight is wondering if maybe Merlin went off the find the army and do something about it. He certainly hopes not.

The Prince - King - nods gratefully. "Thank you. He should know as soon as possible."

Just as Arthur turns away to prepare for siege, a voice calls him back.

"Arthur."

The three men look towards the source of the voice. There stands Vivian, pale and trembling, her face exceedingly somber.

"Arthur, may I talk to you? Now?"

* * *

><p>They are cousins. Of the five children the siblings Ambrosius, Hunith, and Camlach brought up, Merlin is the oldest, closely followed by Gaheris. Merlin has not seen his extended family for many years, and now here they are, in Camelot, clearly defying their father, who is apparently marching on his nephew's home.<p>

Camlach, as has been mentioned, is the king over the Unseelie Court, what some consider the 'bad' fairies, as it might be put. That lot might have fallen to Hunith, had she not renounced her blood-right at the tender age of fourteen, to flee Avalon and take up residence near where her soon-to-be mentor Gaius lived. One might say this was a bad move on her part—it did give an awful lot of power to her younger brother, but she can hardly be blamed. She had never felt quite at home in the court life, and found it easy to give up.

Merlin had never much cared for visiting his extended family. He liked his Uncle Ambrosius and his family, and got on very well with Camlach's older child Gaheris, but Niniane and her father . . . well, they were a different matter entirely. Those two were very much alike, both strategically minded and rather selfish, aloof and cold, though Camlach must be a thousand times more.

This being said, it should not surprise anyone that Merlin's first explanation for Niniane's presence in Camelot is as a spy, to weaken the defenses of the city from the inside—like any inside weakening would change anything when you had an army of sorcerers on your side.

So after he speaks her name, his first words are "Why are you here?"

Niniane gives him a look that says she knows exactly what he is thinking. "It was Gaheris' idea," she replies, sitting down next to him on the window sill, "he wanted to save Camelot's hide." She rolls her eyes. "He's so sentimental about humans, don't you think? I mean, I suppose they are fascinating, but really, must we betray Father over them?"

And that right there is Niniane: bored and uncaring. Merlin knows this, and he also knows she will never do anything unless give sufficient reason. Gaheris was the kind one, the one who actually genuinely cared for most people, but Niniane need . . . well, bribery basically.

"What did he give you in return?" her cousin asks.

The princess of Avalon smiles brightly, more happy than any smile she had ever given him. "He promised I could live in the World of Men. Wasn't that nice of him?"

Merlin can only imagine that Gaheris must have been desperate, to promise Niniane that. He shakes his head. "Uncle Ambrosius will never allow that: the fey are supposed to stay in Avalon."

"What about your mother?" Niniane argues. "Besides, Ambrosius-"

She stops suddenly, a shadow passing over her face. Merlin frowns.

"Ambrosius what?" he asks.

The girl bites her lip, looking sorrowful. "Father killed Uncle Ambrosius," she says softly. "He tried to stop Father, and . . ."

Merlin gapes, gripping the edge of the sill. "He's dead?" he says, unbelieving.

"Yes," Niniane says, with a touch of impatience at Merlin's slowness. "And right before we left, Father ordered a few of the soldiers to return to Avalon and take care of Ambrosius's family. His wife, his two children."

"Our aunt," Merlin says forcefully. "Our two cousins. No. He cannot have ordered that."

"He did," Niniane insists. "I heard it myself."

Merlin's dream, always at the edge of his mind these days, floats closer again, and he suddenly makes a connection.

_"__I __will __not __allow __one __more __of __my __kin __to __fall __at __your __hand__,"_ he whispers, quoting himself.

"Pardon?" Niniane asks, but Merlin is not listening.

* * *

><p>Morgana finds it almost difficult to stand straight and fearless in front of this man. He radiates an aura of pure cruelty, and she starts to question their presence in his army. Morgause, who is still slightly weakened by her bad head wound, seems hardly more at ease here than her sister.<p>

"The true queen of Camelot, you say?" Camlach mutters, his eyes gleaming. "You wish to rule that land when all is done?"

Morgana glances at Morgause for a moment, then turns back and nods firmly. "Yes. My _brother_—" this spoken with annoyance and hate—"holds what is not his to have. It is my right, and I can bring peace and prosperity to the land."

Camlach smiles coldly. "Just like you did the last time you were Queen, I suppose? You made quite a mess of things, if I heard correctly."

Morgana feels a flash of anger with side of shame. "That was Arthur's fault. If he hadn't interfered—"

But Camlach is laughing, a humorless chuckle, and he looks at the ground to regain his composure. "No matter," he says, "I'm sure you'll do better this time. Of course you may have your birthright when we take it."

Something very deep inside of Morgana tells her that he is lying.

* * *

><p>"So . . . so . . . what you're saying . . ."<p>

Arthur, personally, has never been so overwhelmed in his life. Here he is, standing on the opposite end of the hallway from Gwaine and Lancelot (they refused to leave entirely), and staring at Vivian like he has never quite seen anything like her.

He closes his eyes, trying to gain some semblance of normality, to place the facts (or fiction, he really has no idea what is true and what isn't anymore) in a recognizable order.

His father is dead.

Merlin's mother is dead. He must tell Merlin this as soon as possible.

There is a magical army marching on Camelot as he thinks, getting closer and closer. He has no way of stopping them.

Or so he thought. Vivian has just given him both a ray of hope, and a dash of horror.

"Arthur," she had said after pulling him aside, "I have some news. I think I can help with this problem we're having. You see, er, I am almost one hundred percent sure I can use magic."

It is quite possible he has never been so conflicted in his life. Here is a sorceress offering her services. And yet, it would be going against the laws.

Arthur looks out the window to his left. From it, he can see Elyan and a couple of other knights supervising the entrance of the inhabitants of the Lower Town into the citadel. The people are carrying precious few belongings, hustling children and clutching babies, arms wrapped around each other, frightened for their lives and their loved ones, uncertain of the future.

_What __would __have __happened __if __we__'__d __had __a __magic __user __on __our __side __during __Morgana__'__s __reign__?_

In the end, it isn't such a hard decision.

He clenches his jaw. "You want to help? You can help."

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, Nimueh and Freya are stepping out of the forest. They eye the towering castle with wary hearts, having good reasons to fear its walls.<p>

"I seem to remember it being bigger," Freya says conversationally. "Though I suppose everything looks bigger when you're being dragged to your doom in a cage."

Nimueh snorts.

Freya's eyes flit from one battlement to the next, biting her lip a little. "Are you sure Merlin will listen if you're there? From what you've told me, he doesn't exactly care for you."

Her companion sighs. "I know, and that's what worries me as well. I may be evil, but I hope he'll see I'm sincere right now." She looks over at the still dripping Lady, and says in a sly voice, "if what _you__'__ve _told me is true, your presence should help."

It is all Freya can do to not roll her eyes in despair.

* * *

><p>It is a couple hours later that Arthur finally finds Merlin, helping strengthen the inner walls. At his side are the two peasants that brought news of Camlach's approach, and they are talking softly and earnestly. As he walks closer, apprehension filling him to the core, he notices the red-haired brother and sister seem to be trying to convince Merlin of something, something he seems quite averse to. But what could it be?<p>

"Merlin!" he calls. Merlin jumps slightly and turns. Seeing his master, he straightens quickly.

"Arthur, I heard you were back," he says. "Did everything go well?"

Arthur almost laughs—almost. "I suppose it depends on your definition of _well_," the soon-to-be-King responds. He is feeling more nervous about this encounter as the moments pass, and wishes to get it over with a quickly as is humanely possible. "And saying that, I need to speak with you."

Merlin swallows. "So do I." He glances back at his two companions, and they both nod encouragingly. "Could we do it alone?"

"That would probably be best," Arthur replies.

He leads the way into his chambers, his mind whirling about inside itself, struggling. For a moment after the door is closed, he simply looks around the room, wondering how on Earth he is going to say this, how to phrase something that will probably start Merlin crying. He hates it when people cry, never knows what to do or say except punch them on the arm and tell them no man is worth it.

Except Hunith was not a man. And she is worth it.

And as he struggles to speak, Merlin beats him to the punch.

"Arthur, I need to tell you something. I know, I know, I should have told you this a long time ago, and you can be as mad at me as you like—later. Just give me a chance, please, I really can help here."

Arthur is confused. What on Earth is Merlin talking about? His confusion must have shown on his face, because Merlin smiles nervously (he looks like he might be sick) and continues.

"Arthur, I . . ." he stops, gulps. "Alright, I guess I'd better just say it." He takes a deep, deep breath. "Arthur, I'm a sorcerer."

And Arthur, after a moment's dumbfounded pause, sits down rather heavily. "Oh," is all he says. All he really can say. He does not even entertain the idea that Merlin is joking, because Merlin would not do something like that at a time like this.

Arthur is an amazing man in many ways. He can wield a sword like no one else, he can command whole armies, sweep Gwen off her feet, rule a country with justice and mercy, but this? This is new territory for him. First Vivian, now _Merlin__?_ Where has everyone's sanity gone? Why are they telling him this _now_? Can't they see he is already overwhelmed, filled to the brim with all the worries he can think about, and they wish to give him more?

So Arthur, struggling to grasp all these new concepts all at once, grasps a fistful of hair and almost growls, "Fine! Fine! You are a sorcerer!" He sits up, suddenly furious. "Alright! That's fine! Just the sauce on top of the turkey!"

"Arthur?" Merlin asks hesitantly, but Arthur stands again, full of nervous energy and bursting to be heard.

"No, Merlin, not a another word." The Prince swallows, breathing heavily. "Just listen. I can't take this. I _cannot__take__this_, alright? I've got so many things to think about right now, there is an army rushing on Camelot, my father is dead, your mother is dead, Vivian is _also_ a magic-user—"

"Wait, _what_?" Merlin gasps, his mouth open and staring. "Mother? What—what did you say about my mother?"

To his horror, Arthur almost feels like crying himself, so submerged is he, and he blurts it out thoughtlessly, carelessly. "Yes, she's dead, Camlach's army destroyed Ealdor, only Rowena survived."

Merlin listens to precious little else his king says. He is horrified.

Who wouldn't be?

* * *

><p>Back in the courtyard, Gaheris looks up and frowns. "Nini," he says urgently, and his sister looks up. Immediately she spots her cousin walking towards them, his head down and face long. They both flinch slightly as he, not watching where he is going, ploughs right into a young woman in a beautiful purple dress walking by.<p>

It's like a perfectly choreographed meeting: Merlin, startled out of his reverie, pushes himself away from the brunette woman, clasping her upper arms for leverage, and involuntarily looks up to meet her eyes.

He is too far away for his words to reach them, but it is obvious he knows this girl. His shoulders straighten, he blinks, and a slow but genuine smile forms on his face, and she follows suit. They hug, and joyous (not to mention curious) words are exchanged. They laugh, and passersby stare, knowing Merlin, but not this female he can't seem to tear his eyes away from.

Her friend stands unobtrusively nearby, clearly trying not to be noticed.

Niniane, for some reason she cannot fathom, is finding both the young women very familiar. It is not until Gaheris gasps and says, "Niniane! It's the Lady of the Lake!" that she also realizes the other woman is Nimueh, a former Priestess of the Old Religion.

"My goodness," she says, scowling, "Merlin does have some odd friends, doesn't he?"

And then Merlin sees Nimueh.

Nimueh smiles rather weakly, because no matter how hard she tries she can't help but be nervous in the face of her killer (who-is-the-most-powerful-sorcerer-in-the-Universe-maybe). "Hello, Merlin. Long time no see."

* * *

><p>Now they all sit in Gaius' apartments. Merlin had surprised Nimueh by reacting quite well to her presence. It seemed he was thinking (as Niniane smirkingly put it) remarkably clearly for some reason, and had quickly come to the assumption that she was there to help. This is a great relief to the sorceress, who had been wary that there would be a scene.<p>

Also, Arthur, showing great presence of mind, had informed Vivian of the new developments and sent her to his manservant for instruction. Vivian stands mutinously in the corner, hating taking orders from a servant, and the future king himself not far away, not comfortable surrounded by all this magic - especially not Nimueh, whom he barely restrained beheading - but present.

All in all, the evening is going very well. So far, anyway, there is still an army marching for them, and any mistakes will be more than they can afford. Already there is a faint sound on the wind, like the pounding of the drums of war.

Merlin is feeling incredibly nervous at being put in charge, with so many people hanging onto his every word, a situation he isn't used to. For the last two hours, he, his cousins, and the two un-dead women had been researching method after method for stopping—or at the very least slowing—the army's juggernaut-like approach, and finally, they think they have found something.

"This defense will be two-fold," he says in the most confident voice he can muster. "Well, more a defense-offense system. We'll have the regular army, of course, inside the city, but we all know that won't be enough. It has been suggested, by Gaheris here, that we place simple defensive wards around the city. These won't hold for long against an experienced onslaught, but I know Gary, and he's very good at making convoluted shields. I think he'll do a fine job."

Gaheris, not used to such praise, blushes slightly, a lovely color that clashes alarmingly with his hair. Vivian's lip curls in disgust. Arthur, standing quietly by the door, doesn't remove his hawk-ish eyes from Merlin's face.

But Merlin isn't done. "Also, Nimueh has suggested we use a very old and not much used spell to increase our chances. This spell will, in way, er, muffle any spells they cast, make them slower and weaker, make them use more power. That way they'll tire easier, they'll be easier to beat."

"Won't it be difficult to cast?" Vivian asks, with one eyebrow raised. "I mean, more difficult then we can handle?"

"Separately?" Merlin responds. "Absolutely. Together? Not at all. If we combine our power, the spell should work. We would, of course, have to find some way to discount our own power, but I'm sure that can be done."

Arthur stands abruptly. "Well, then no sense sitting around all day, let's get moving!" he calls, and the group obeys his order without thinking to question it. Merlin, catching himself in this act, smiles. He may be temporarily in charge here, but Arthur is a true leader.

* * *

><p>In his many years as a knight, Sir Leon has made a rather disturbing discovery. It seems that if there is an army nearby Camelot, he will be on patrol when it arrives. Invariably. Irrevocably. This fact bothers him, just slightly.<p>

But, since he knows it, when he looks down the hill and sees a mass of bodies (some obviously not human) heading in his general direction, he is not surprised. One might say he's resigned.

What does surprise him is the vagabond, perhaps a scout, that attacks him from behind. Now, Leon has trained with Arthur for years, so his reflexes are well up to par. The sword barely glances off his armor, and he deflects the next cut with deceptive ease.

Leon's opponent greatly resembles a monkey, and smells like he hasn't washed for about five years, but he is a good fighter, almost up to Leon's standard. The two men flash their swords in every direction, up and under, left and right, almost beheading the other there, almost taking an arm off here, but never quite getting the upper hand.

Then the rest of the guards, hearing the tell-tale clanging, come running. Before they can do anything, the muddy man has backed away and lifted his hand in their direction, whispering. Immediately, they stop, and Leon, too, feels the constraining magic holding them back.

"You should go," the man says softly, "while you still can. Camlach will not show mercy. Run, and save yourselves."

And then he's gone, taking his invisible forces with him.

* * *

><p>Merlin has trouble getting to sleep that night. He, Gaius, and Nimueh had stayed up until almost midnight researching what they would need for the spell, and though his body is begging for rest, his mind cannot keep still.<p>

He wonders what Camlach's attack strategy will be. Surely not just a frontal assault, surely some sort of inside maneuvering as well? Camlach might not know his nephew is present (though the chances of that are low), but he must know there will be some trick in the easiness of taking Camelot, some secret strategy . . . he'd want to make . . . absolutely . . . absolutely . . .

He sleeps, and this time no dream disturbs his rest.

* * *

><p><strong>One <strong>**Day**

Convincing his knights of the magic users' friendliness is surprisingly easy, Arthur thinks, with only shocked looks and a few mutinous ones. He supposes they've just decided to trust his judgement (he's not sure how he feels about this). There is surprise, of course, at Merlin's part to play, but a kind of understanding too, like they had always known it. If so, Arthur knows how they feel. There is almost a rightness in the golden color Merlin's eyes turn as he and his friends enchant weapon after weapon, like that's their natural hue.

Merlin had murmured some regrets about not getting a special magical sword, and his, "Don't worry, Arthur, we'll get it later," had done nothing to break Arthur's utter confusion, but it prompts him to finally utter the ultimatum Merlin has been fearing.

"By the way, Merlin, you and I need to have a long chat later. About all the things you've been getting up to these last few years."

Merlin smiles nervously at this, nods, and turns away to help Gaheris with the shields. Within moments they are both chanting softly, and there is an almost imperceptible flicker in the air, one Arthur long ago associated with magic.

For the whole day, they don't have much time together, but at sunset Arthur finds himself standing next to Merlin in the armory, checking the weapons. The two give each other slightly nervous looks before going about their jobs. After a moment, Arthur says:

"So, your mother's a fairy, eh?"

Merlin blinks, but nods in the affirmative. "Full-blooded," he says; his voice is almost gloomy.

"And your father?" Arthur asks, but Merlin shakes his head.

"That's a whole 'nother story. Best wait till after the battle to tell _that_ one."

"But what does it mean?" Arthur asks. "Being half-fairy I mean. What does it mean for you?"

Merlin fiddles with the spear he's checking, not meeting Arthur's eyes. "Well," he says slowly, "fairies _are_ immortal. They can be killed in battle, but not by old age or disease. And Mother thinks that . . ."

"That?" Arthur prompts, though he's pretty sure he knows exactly where this is going.

". . . Well, that it might happen to me." Merlin shoots Arthur a quick sideways glance, taking in his expression. "We're not sure though; fairies and humans don't mix all _that_ much."

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Noticed any danger signs yet?"

"Well, I haven't died of any diseases," Merlin points out, "but that's not proof. If it were true, eventually I'd just . . . stop aging. I wouldn't get any older."

"When?"

"Depends," the warlock shrugs. "Still hasn't happened to my mother yet, not that she's noticed anyway. I could be an old man when it kicks in."

Struck by some sudden agitation, Merlin stands up and begins fiddling nervously with the weapons. "When I was a child, I thought the idea of living forever was marvelous, but now I shiver just thinking about it. Camelot is my home now, and no one here is immortal. I'd have to watch as all of you died, not knowing when I'd ever see you again."

He turns and looks at his friend, sitting and watching with a troubled brow. "I'd not wish that fate on my worst enemy."

* * *

><p><strong>Zero <strong>**Days**

The next day they don't get a chance to talk, because suddenly the army everyone has been whispering about is here, real and forceful, even though all they can see of it is a faint glimmering in the trees as it marches closer.

Nimueh tears her calculating eyes away from the gleam, and says, "It's ready."-meaning the 'muffling' spell. "We should execute it in the center of the castle. That would be . . . the courtyard, wouldn't it?"

Arthur wants to watch, to see the magic in a way he never thought possible before, but he forces himself to remain on the battlements and observe the enemy.

He still swears he feels ripple spreading from the castle, like a shuddering of the world. The spell has worked.

But then the army arrives, mere minutes later, filing out from behind the trees and ranking up in front of the castle. No one attacks, not yet. The magic is almost palpable, glittering from a thousand eyes down below, and Arthur can only pray the shields will hold. How can a shield that was so seemingly easy to erect stand against so much power? The Prince doesn't see any way for this to work.

Merlin steps closer, nervously watching his master. "Don't worry, Arthur," he whispers, too quietly for anyone to hear. "The shields won't break. Gaheris is _very_ good at what he does."

Arthur raises a skeptical eyebrow, wondering how Merlin always seems to know what he is thinking and feeling. "We'll see about that."

* * *

><p>Camlach growls wordlessly, stalking from one end of his tent to the other. The two Druids watch him nervously, obviously not sure what is the matter with their temporary leader. Morgause and Morgana, having just entered the room, pause and look around curiously.<p>

"Camlach?" Morgana interrupts. "What is it?"

Camlach's raging eyes fall on her, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to falter under his gaze. Thankfully, he looks away soon and resumes pacing.

"It's my children," he hisses, "my children have betrayed me. They have gone to Camelot, and they are _helping __my __enemies_!"

This so stuns his listeners that nobody speaks.

"I'm going to kill them," Camlach snarls, and there is nothing but conviction and hate in his tone. "I'm going to destroy them and this pathetic city. And I'm going to destroy my nephew as well."

* * *

><p>The first onslaught is arrows, of course, which deflect off the shield like they have hit a solid wall. Somewhere, a red-haired prince lets out a relieved breath. Next there comes fire, ice, invisible surges, anything to break through the unbreakable barrier. Nothing works, <em>thank <em>_heavens_, Arthur thinks. The 'muffling' spell won't start working until they actually reach the city, but that's fine with him.

He hears Nimueh whisper. "Strange that the shield is lasting this long, eh, Freya? I would have thought that it would have failed minutes ago."

Niniane, standing on Freya's other side, snorts. "That's because Merlin's helping to hold it up. You don't seriously think they're going to get past Merlin when all he's doing is holding a shield, do you?"

Then Camlach's army seems to abruptly reconsider things, and head for the gate as well. The Prince sighs. He supposes it was inevitable.

It's hard for arrows from the battlements to reach anyone at the gate, as they know, so instead they concentrate their efforts on the back end, near the gate but not too near. Too far out, and the magic is working well enough to block. Gaheris stays back to maintain the shields, and Gaius is waiting in the infirmary, while the other five magic-users in the city do what they can to stop the breaking and entering in progress. But there are only five of them and hundreds of the others. The gate, no matter how strong it is, falls to the weight of severely weakened spells.

Later, as they are fighting, sword in one hand and spell in the other (Arthur realizes then that perhaps his sparring with Merlin is finally paying off), Merlin gets a premonition that maybe, just maybe they could win this. Swarms of Sidhe are everywhere, not doing much because their spells are blocked, but pulling hair and obscuring vision, distracting and tripping. It's very annoying, and Niniane (she had never liked the pesky rats anyway) constantly blasts hordes of them from the sky.

And then, a horrific force rips its way through the shields, a force that feels familiar almost. The magic users feel it like a physical blow to the chest, and Gaheris frantically cries the incantation to mend the hole. The sheer power behind it—either it is a magic-user beyond Morgause's caliber, or it had been many magic-users.

"Niniane!" Merlin yells. "Find out what that was!" His cousin nods and races for the castle, sprinting like her life depends on it. Maybe it does.

* * *

><p>Gaheris is feeling unaccountably nervous. The wards are holding, but the bad feeling persists.<p>

Meanwhile, his older cousin is feeling a similar emotion, though he knows the source.

Where is Camlach? Merlin knows his uncle would not hunker in the background like a coward, but stand and fight, try and win the battle and call it his own. So where is he?

Then it hit Merlin. Oh. Oh. Of course, inside maneuvering. The rip in the shield.

Camlach had teleported inside the castle.

_Niniane_.

Panic and fear fills him to the brim, and his magic whips out, catching more than one unsuspecting person in its lash. Merlin turns and runs for the castle, trying to feel for where the spell stopped, for where Niniane would have gone.

Arthur sees him go. "Merlin!" he calls. "_Merlin__!_" The warlock does not hear, or stop, so Arthur, muttering about the stupidity and vulnerability of idiotic sorcerers, fights after him.

* * *

><p>For a moment after she opens the door, she feels unaccountably idiotic. Of course, <em>of <em>_course_ it's her father, who else would it be? Who else would have access to that kind of power?

Yes, that's right, no one (Except Merlin, of course, but thankfully he's on their side).

So when she turns and sees him and realizes she's trapped, she doesn't immediately feel afraid. Perhaps she can talk her way out of this, bluff. _It __was __all __Gaheris__' __idea__, __I __was __just __being __the __good __little __sister__. __I __was __going __to __spy __for __you__, __Father__, __but __I __couldn__'__t __find __a __good __time __to __get __away__._

How could she have been so _stupid_?

* * *

><p>The castle is not empty, not by any standards, but no one stops Merlin as he races down the corridors. He has pinpointed to the nearest ten meters where Camlach arrived, a room not far from Arthur's that sits over the courtyard.<p>

As he approaches the door, there are two fey guards that race at him, swords held high and threatening, but Merlin is done with playing fair; Niniane is in danger, and his eyes flash as flaming fire. One guard drops and moves no more, but the other has counter-acted the sleeping spell, and Merlin is forced to fight, blow after blow, strike, parry, and then the blade thrusts home. The fairy falls, and Merlin continues on his way.

He throws the door open, his mind homing in on the beacons that are Niniane and Camlach, and there they are, both of them.

Goodness knows what her father said to her to make her cower and whimper so. She would never tell. But now Merlin cares little for the details. He wants it to stop, the bloodshed and carnage that started all those years ago with a frightened little boy. But, in order for it to work, one more death.

"STOP!"

Camlach spins around, eyes narrowing, wondering who would dare interrupt his little 'heart-to-heart' with his daughter.

It is none other than his hated nephew in the flesh. The man who pushed his daughter to her betrayal. The fairy king snarls.

"You," he says, "you."

A sword hangs loosely in Merlin's hand. It has been recently used, and by the tense stance the man is taking, he is ready to use it again.

Camlach sees this, and almost laughs. Does Merlin think he can beat years of experience with desperation? He is a fool, and will be dealt with accordingly.

"You wish to protect her?" Camlach questions. "She has done nothing to earn your trust. Why would you save her from a fate she deserves?"

Merlin trembles with some indefinable emotion, shaking with it and not showing it more than an inch. His face is blank, but his voice is full of his pain as he replies, "I will not allow one more of my kin to fall at your hand." His beloved mother, his compassionate uncle, his lovely aunt, and their two kind children, all dead, and for what? Camlach's greed?

Merlin knows what havoc he can wreck in anger. He has seen it. And now, he can use it to his advantage.

He reaches up a hand and carefully unties his neckerchief. He removes it. He steps closer, and tosses the piece of cloth at the his uncle's feet in challenge.

He raises the sword.

Camlach looks at him and smiles coldly, and suddenly Merlin realizes his uncle is mad, and probably has been for many years. Feeling sorry for this man is hard, but somehow Merlin manages it.

"Challenge accepted," the king says, and steps forward.

* * *

><p>Arthur can't find Merlin. The idiot seems to have vanished into thin air for all the scurrying servants can tell him. "Oh, he went somewhere over there," is about the best direction he has gotten. He has been searching for almost ten minutes, and is just about to return to the front when, in the act of crossing the courtyard, he hears a loud crash emanating from above him. Turning, the Prince sees an enormous fireball exploding out of a broken window above him. It flares for barely five seconds, but Arthur thinks, <em>If <em>_that __doesn__'__t __have__ '__Merlin __is __in __trouble__' __written __all __over __it__, __I__'__ll __eat __my __sword__._

* * *

><p>The warlock has never been quite so grateful for Arthur's 'lessons', since they are probably saving his life. Camlach may be mad, but he is very good with a sword, swinging and hacking at Merlin with precision and fury, such that he can barely block. The warlock swears he can hear a voice in his head, yelling out instructions that are currently saving his life, "<em>Shield<em>_! __Left__! __Leg__! __Head__! __Sword__ . . ."_ Occasionally, the fey will throw some sort of spell at his half-blooded nephew, which will be easily blocked, and counter-attacked. Without these opportunities to use his magic, Merlin would have succumbed to the blistering attack moments in.

There is one particular moment when Camlach backs away, measuring with his eyes and calculating, then quick as thought, he blasts at Merlin with a gargantuan fireball, spitting flames that smash through the window and almost fries the Dragonlord.

Merlin has jumped out of the way, but Camlach takes advantage of his momentary distraction, and, flinging aside his sword he pulls a dagger, and jumps forward, ready to stab. It is only instinct that saves Merlin from being skewered, his hands latching around Camlach's wrist. They slam into the wall, then almost fall out the broken window, glass sticking and pricking, and Merlin's not strong enough to hold his uncle's arm up, the knife is inching towards his heart.

Merlin's center of gravity always was off, and he's only halfway out the window - no one else would have fallen. But this is Merlin, and with him, when something can go wrong, it does go wrong.

Merlin falls. Camlach, dragged by the tight grip on his wrist, follows.

* * *

><p>Arthur sees them fall, and seems to him like it's in slow motion, Camlach's enraged face, Merlin's desperate one, the dagger, and then, in the window up above, Niniane appears, crying out in horror.<p>

He only has time to take one step forward before they hit the ground.

Arthur can hear bone snap from twenty feet away, followed closely by Merlin's scream of agony, and then he is running, panic making his heart hurt like it will burst. He tears Camlach's unmoving body away from Merlin's, and kneels down.

It's even worse than he first thought. His eyes are not immediately drawn to the broken femur (because it _is_ broken, there's no doubting that strange shape), but to the dagger stabbed right into Merlin's shoulder.

_He__'__s__lucky__,_ whispers the tiny part of Arthur's brain that is still rational, _it__missed__his__heart__._ He tells it to shush, but it helps to clear his head just a bit. What should he do?

Gaius. Yes, of course, that's who he needs.

"Someone get Gaius!" he yells to no one in particular, and while someone obeys he presses as hard as he can on the wound, not removing the knife because that could make it worse. Merlin is convulsing under his hands, shuddering and gasping, eyes rolling like a madman's. Arthur feels like he can't breathe.

"Come on, you idiot," he hisses. "You cannot die on me now, you still haven't given me that explanation! Come _on_, fight it!"

Arthur is still muttering, still trying to keep Merlin awake and alive, when help arrives.

* * *

><p>When Merlin wakes up, the first thing he notices is the pain.<p>

"Ugh . . ." he groans. Undoubtedly the stabbing aches in his shoulder and leg are actually worse than they seem, he's probably just doped up on Gaius' revolting pain-killers.

He opens his eyes. There's someone there, but it takes a few blinks before their form comes into focus.

It's Freya. She smiles brightly and takes his hand.

"Hello, love," says the Lady. "Welcome back. I'm assuming by that little groan there you aren't exactly feeling in top condition?" He nods, and his hand gets a squeeze. "I'm sorry for that. Gaius has strictly forbidden us from touching anything but your hands, so that's why you don't get a hug like last time."

He laughs - just a little, his chest really does hurt - and replies, "Gaius is very wise."

This makes her smile as well, and for a moment, everything is well in the world.

"Where is Camlach?" Merlin asks. Freya sighs.

"The fall killed him. We burned the body yesterday."

"And Arthur?"

"He's fine. Barely a scratch on him. We were very lucky Nimueh knew about that muffling spell, otherwise we would have been done for."

Merlin relaxes slightly, feeling a little calmer. But something is still nagging at him.

"Freya, can I ask you for some advice?"

"Now? You should probably rest-"

"I need it now, so I can think about what you say. Are you willing?'

The Lady nods uncertainly. "Of course."

"While I was asleep just now, I had a very odd dream," he tells her, "and I don't think it was the normal kind."

"Is anything ever normal for you?"

He gives her a look. She smiles innocently.

"Anyway. I don't suppose I should go into the details of the dream, but it had me in it, and Niniane."

"The princess?"

Merlin nods, his eyes far away in the distant future, seeing something no one else could. He doesn't look happy. "But that's not all. When we were fine tuning the shield, Niniane came to me and asked-well." He is silent for several moments, prompting Freya to fidget slightly in curiosity. Noticing, her man looks over and states bluntly, "She wants me to teach her magic."

* * *

><p>Seeing his sister assist in the rebuilding efforts is a surprise, Gaheris admits. Normally Niniane abhors work of any sort, especially something she won't get reimbursed for. But she's been acting differently ever since the battle, ever since their father's untimely death, more quiet and almost kinder. All the vivacity has gone out of her.<p>

It's slightly depressing. And not Niniane.

Probably they will never know what happened in that room over the courtyard, what her father said to overcome her. She certainly won't tell, and he can't. Maybe that was what caused this dramatic transformation.

But everyone is changing. They have to. The city is changing to accommodate magic. Nimueh and Arthur parted on less than friendly terms, but hopefully the sorceress would hold in her thirst for revenge. The magical army experienced a resounding defeat and magnanimous pardon from Arthur. Most left in tears of anger. Morgause and Morgana, though Arthur simply knew they had been there, were not found. Freya would soon have to return to her Lake, to wait until the end of time, probably. Vivian was afraid to even see her father, since he now knew of her magic. Personally, no one else was very worried about him hurting her, but the princess has expressed a deep desire to run away to Avalon and learn magic. With Gaheris of course, because Gaheris himself was now the king of all Avalon. He still shivers to think of it.

But Niniane . . . what to do about her?

In the end, it is Merlin that solves the problem for him. Niniane goes to visit him on his sickbed (that man really is lucky to be alive), and she comes racing out five minutes later, screaming ecstatically at the top of her lungs:

_"__I__'__M __GOING __TO __LEARN __MAGIC__!"_

Gaheris has to laugh at her enthusiasm.

_**"**__**Ad **__**astra **__**per **__**aspera**__**. (**__**To **__**the **__**stars **__**through **__**difficulties**__**.)"**_

— _**Seneca**_

* * *

><p>Writing this was surprisingly difficult. But I like it better than I used to, which is good.<p>

Please review!


	6. DOUBT

AN: Also known as, LTG's Pathetic Attempt At An Awesome Spy Story. Though it does help if you listen to 'The Bourne Vivaldi' while reading it;)

Changes: Just a check-up. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Doubt<p>

**The ****Name****'****s ****Emrys****. ****Merlin ****Emrys****.**

_1624_

As she stood by the side of a highly intelligent but probably insane English spy, Sonya took a moment to consider the choices that had led her to this point.

One could suppose it had started the moment she decided to work for Mr. Andrei, but they would suppose wrong. It had all started the previous day, when said Mr. Andrei had called her to his office and informed her she had a new assignment.

"We've received intelligence that a highly dangerous artifact is in the possession of a member of the Russian army. Due to our . . . unique services, we've been asked by the government to retrieve it. They are, of course, sending one of their own agents to assist you."

Sonya raised an eyebrow, surprised. "We usually work alone, sir. Do you think I _need_ help? I thought, what with our not being under the government's control, they were worried about us 'corrupting' their agents?"

Mr. Andrei sighed. "You've probably right, but think about it: do you want to go up against Mister Javalski without backup?"

The woman's eyes widened, then narrowed. "No, of course not," she said finally, "that would be suicide."

Mr. Andrei nodded, looking, as ever, slightly sad. "That it would be." He picked up a paper that was sitting on his desk. "I don't know the full details - they want it kept as secret as possible - but you are to be picked up at your house tomorrow night. Wear something formal; if you don't have anything suitable, ask my secretary. Mister Javalski is having a party that night, and the government's agent has procured two invitations. Just wait at home, and he'll meet you at seven."

Mr. Andrei looked down in a dismissive manner, but Sonya didn't move.

"How will I know him when I see him?" she asked.

Mr. Andrei focused his mournful eyes on her again. "Oh, yes. They simply said that if he were standing next to you, no one would question why." He gave her a rare smile, albeit an apologetic one. "It doesn't make much sense to me, but that's all I know."

_Well__, __that__'__s __helpful__,_ Sonya thought sarcastically.

When she responded to the knock at her door the next night, clad in a flowing dark blue gown that Mr. Andrei's secretary had rustled up, she started think that maybe the comment had been more helpful than she realized. She could envision herself standing next to this man and rather complementing him. Where she was blond, he was black-haired; where she was unusually tan for a Russian, he was pale as the ice that covered the Russian rivers in winter.

The man smiled pleasantly and gave a short bow. "Hello, you must be Miss Sonya," he said. He had a funny accent, like he wasn't a native Russian, but he looked too fine-boned to have grown up in Russia anyway. _European__,_ she judged. _Maybe __German __or __English__._

This thought process took only a second, and then she smiled warmly, curtsying. "Yes, and you are?"

"Michael," the man replied. "Mikhail sent me."

Sonya raised an eyebrow. "You throw the Tsar's name around rather calmly," she accused.

Michael just grinned and gestured out the door. "Shall we go?" he asked. "The carriage awaits." He offered his arm, and she took it; his smile was charming. As they paraded down the stairs, Sonya noticed he limped slightly.

As they settled back into the seats and the carriage lurched to a start, Michael spoke again.

"So. I assume you know the basics: dangerous artifact in the possession of one Mister Javalski, general in the Russian army, we're supposed to retrieve it. Correct?" Sonya nodded. "Lovely. What you probably _don__'__t _know is A., what this artifact is, and B., how we know Javalski has it."

The lady-spy nodded. "I did wonder."

Michael smiled apologetically. "Well, I'm afraid _I _don't even know the answer to the first question. I was approached by an old friend of mine about two months ago, when I was visiting England. He's actually my cousin, but that's . . . not important. Anyway, it's a long and complicated story, but the short of it is, he heard of Mister Javalski getting hold of this thing. He wasn't sure how to go about getting it back, since he couldn't come to Moscow himself. But I have connections among the Russian government, people who also know my cousin (or, know _of_ him, I should say), and we have all agreed this should happen."

"Without knowing what you're stealing?"

The man laughed a little. "You don't know my cousin. He's infallible to the end, and I don't think he could lie, even jokingly, if he tried. If he says this object is dangerous, than it is."

They had almost reached Mister Javalski's house by then, and were cruising through the darkened streets in the richer part of town. Sonya watched through a sliver in the curtain as door after door flicked past. Her mind drifted off for a moment. She sighed.

"Then we'd best get it as soon as possible," she told him, turning away.

Michael smiled. "Alright then, here's the plan."

* * *

><p>As they talked, settling back in their seats, Sonya took a few more moments to appraise the young man sitting across from her. Now that she knew a bit more about him, she saw that his eyes stayed closed for a fraction of a second too long, like he just wanted to fall asleep, and he was constantly correcting the slump in his shoulders, as if trying to shrug off some burden. Though his smile was quick and bright, it faded sooner than would be expected from such an easy, open face.<p>

He looked tired.

Sonya found herself thanking all the saints that she was not an official spy. How Mr. Andrei had established a legal espionage service separate from the government is too long a story to relate here, but it meant the agency had some amount of choice regarding which jobs they accepted. Perhaps not as much as they would have liked, but they were not run to the bone as the official spies were. And usually, if the government wanted an inconvenient someone out of the way, they would send one of their own lackeys. Looking at Michael's twinkling but sad eyes, Sonya could believe he'd done a few jobs like that.

You might ask why the government would hire Mr. Andrei's people at all, if they had their own. That may have had something to do with that fact that Mr. Andrei himself had worked for the government, and had been a first-class spy. He'd been a thief before getting his final vocation in spying, and had passed his skills onto his students. The Andrei-trained, as they were called, specialized in breaking-and-entering, and completing jobs against someone in the government itself. They were handy, if pricey.

His plan relayed to the young lady, Michael leaned back. "Do you understand, Miss Sonya?"

"I do, Mr. Michael," she replied. The plan seemed difficult. "But it sounds like it will take a professional to accomplish it . . ."

He raised an eyebrow. "Like you, I suppose?" She smiled innocently.

"Of course. Everyone knows that the Andrei-trained are the best in Moscow."

Michael laughed, and she struggled to maintain her mostly straight face. "Yes, you certainly could say that, and I've met Mr. Andrei, he's a nice young ma-I mean, not young, he's not young anymore . . . he's a nice man. I'm certain he's done a marvelous job with you." Michael leaned closer and whispered, "But really, Miss Sonya, can't an old hat teach a new dog tricks? You might actually learn something from me, and here you are suggesting I can't do my job properly."

Sonya giggled, despite thinking his comment about Mr. Andrei very odd. "You're mixing your metaphors there, Mr. Michael. And although I wouldn't think of you as _old_, exactly, you might very well know some things I don't. Care to prove it?"

His grin was challenging. "With pleasure, Miss Sonya."

She gave up and laughed at the hilarious sight. "Alright then. Death or glory, Mr. Michael. Death or glory."

* * *

><p>The party was, of course, magnificent. Tassel-bedecked soldiers strutted around the enormous party room, on the arms of high-collared women. Sonya felt self-conscious among all the richly-dressed nobles; her dress was quite plain in comparison.<p>

Michael, as if sensing her thoughts, squeezed her arm and smiled.

"Tonight's going to be great fun," he whispered. He then leaned in a little closer. "Do you see him?"

Sonya looked where his eyes were, and nodded. "_Da_."

It was Mister Javalski. Short, round, and graying, he was greeting guests across the room. Michael started to lead her towards him, but Sonya resisted.

"What's the matter?" he questioned.

"I, um-" Sonya stopped. What was wrong with her? She was being stupid. "It's nothing, just a little nervous, I guess. Let's go."

Mister Javalski obviously knew Michael, for when they stepped closer the general smiled and beckoned them closer. "Ah, Mr. Elkins, the English soldier!" Mister Javalski cried, embracing the spy. "It's good to see you again. But who is your lovely companion?"

Michael urged Sonya forward. "This is Miss Tatiana Tanushka," he said. "She's been so kind as to show me around the city and wanted to meet you so badly, General, I couldn't in all gentlemanliness deny her!"

Mister Javalski laughed, a deep belly laugh that echoed around the room. "Of course not, of course not! Enjoy yourself, Mr. Elkins, eat, drink, and be merry! I am so glad you came!"

The two spies moved away. Sonya felt slightly overwhelmed. "He seems so nice," she muttered. "Not like the way everyone always paints him."

Michael looked at her sharply. "You've heard the rumors, then?"

"Of course! What kind of spy would I be if I hadn't?"

"Hmm." The noise was noncommittal. "What if it turned out they were right?"

Sonya felt a chill go down her back. "You mean, if . . . " The other nodded solemnly. "We'd have to be very careful."

"Absolutely," Michael said. "Watch your back. You never know what the truth is . . . "

Neither spoke for a moment, simply wandering the room. Then, Michael whispered, "Phase one?"

Sonya tried not to gulp. "Phase one," she agreed.

* * *

><p>Sonya went to grab a drink from one of the servants standing quietly in the corners. "I'd like champagne; where can I find a glass?" she asked, looking at the assortment of wines on the platter.<p>

The servant bowed, his face blank. "There is no champagne, ma'am, only wine."

Sonya sniffed, trying to convey all her disdain in that little sound. "Hmm . . . which kind do you suggest?"

The waiter handed her a goblet. "Ma'am, this is the finest wine, just come in from a winery in Kyiv. Aged ten years," but Sonya shook her head.

"Don't you have anything older?" she asked, trying to sound impatient and haughty. The servant remained calm and impassive. He handed her another goblet.

"1594," he said. "Same winery."

Sonya nodded, satisfied, and left without saying thank you. The servant watched her go with a slightly raised eyebrow.

Michael was standing half-way across the room, entertaining a group of older ladies; all were hanging onto his every word. As Sonya drew nearer, she caught the end of his sentence.

"-and then Frank said, 'Of course Cornwall ladies are prettier than London girls, Michael, but they're all married!'"

The women laughed as if he'd just spouted the most adorable nonsense, which Sonya supposed he probably had. She couldn't help thinking he looked very uncomfortable, and when he saw her he immediately said:

"Is that champagne, Miss Tanushka?"

"No, they don't have any," she replied. "But I hear this is very good wine."

He took the goblet from her without ceremony and inhaled deeply before it before handing it back. "I see. The finest from St. Petersburg, I suppose?"

Sonya's eyes shone. "Yes, Mr. Elkins! The very finest!"

One of the women giggled. "Oh, Mr. Elkins, you're so learned!"

Michael bowed modestly. "One does try his best, Lady Tanya."

His eyes moved to something behind Sonya. "Ah, Mister Javalski!"

A hand descended on Sonya's shoulder, and she tensed. The general's voice boomed in her ear. "Mr. Elkins, ladies. I hope you're enjoying yourselves."

"Splendidly sir," Michael replied while the ladies tittered. Sonya didn't dare do anything except smile pleasantly. Michael looked at her, then dipped his eyes towards the goblet in a significant manner. Her hands clenched, and she took what she hoped was a nonchalant sip. Something glinted in the liquid, and she tried to angle the goblet away from everyone while appearing not to.

"Good, good," Mister Javalski said, smiling around. Perhaps it was just her, Sonya could have sworn there was something wrong with that smile. Was it too wide, like a dog's? Was it smirking, like a cat's? Was it too fake, like a snake's? Or was she seeing things?

The goblet trembled, just a little bit.

"I'll leave you to your conversation," the man continued. "Except you, Elkins. I'd like to talk with you."

Michael raised an eyebrow, showing the perfect amount of surprise. "Of course sir. As long as it's alright with Miss Tanushka."

They all looked at her.

Sonya couldn't have said how she looked into those blue eyes and said that it was alright if he went. The only way it could have been fine was if 'alright' was special spy code for 'really-not-alright-at-all'.

* * *

><p>She stood listening to the ladies chat for several minutes, but when her drink was finished, she stepped out of the circle to set it down. That done, she casually wandered around the room and then out a door. No one saw her leave.<p>

But someone felt it.

The corridor beyond was empty, as she had expected. Carefully, she spat something onto her palm.

It was a tiny key, barely an inch long, with gold filigree twining around the handle. Sonya slipped this key into one of the many concealed pockets in her dress. When it had slipped out of the goblet into her mouth (which, no matter how many times she may have said it, did not actually contain wine; getting drunk would have been a very bad idea), for a moment she had feared she might swallow it, especially if called upon to talk, but luckily neither happened. The key, according to the servant she'd acquired it from, who was Michael's contact in the house, was to a chest in Mister Javalski's private study, the one that held the artifact. She had been surprised that it was in such an easy place to find, but Michael had shaken his head.

"That's his normal study," he had told her. "This is the _private_ study." She had given him a weird look at the time, but since the whole affair was turning out to be weird anyway, she didn't comment.

Until he told her where it was, of course.

"You've got to be kidding me," she had groaned. "_Forty __meters__?_"

Michael had nodded glumly. "Straight up," he added. "In a small space, too."

All she could say was, "Now I'm glad Mr. Andrei made us practice climbing slippery slopes in dresses, no matter how many strange looks he got."

Moving cautiously, Sonya stepped down the corridor, counting doors. "One, two, three, four," she muttered, then stepped through the fifth, looking left and right before coming out in another hallway. As she walked, still counting, she took a moment to admire the scenery; Mister Javalski had become rich in his military years, and he had a lovely eye. Lush red carpets lined the floors, swirling wallpaper was plastered on her left and right, while several paintings were hung over it. Sonya loved beauty, and she felt like this would be a wonderful place to live, or even visit often.

So caught up was she in the sights, she almost forgot Mr. Andrei's second rule: "Always pay attention." If she had been just anyone sneaking around it might not have been so shocking; any footfalls were, after all, muffled by the carpet. But she was an Andrei-trained. Such laxity was unforgivable.

Faint words suddenly entered the pleasure in her brain, and she almost jumped. _Voices__!_ She was in so much trouble.

There were precious few places to hide in the almost bare hallway. She scampered down until she reached another turning point where a door was visible. Carefully easing the door open, she slipped inside and waited, her breath bated, until the voices and soft steps had faded away.

_Probably __Mister __Javalski __and __Michael __returning __to __the __party__,_ she thought. _I __must __hurry__._

Finally, after about five minutes of carefully following her fellow spy's instructions, Sonya found what she was looking for. The room was large and well-furnished; obviously used frequently. She guessed a lounge to entertain guests after dinner. But the main focus of her attention was not on the elaborately carved tables, beautifully upholstered chairs, or the fact that her feet felt better just walking on the cushioned floor; no, she was looking at the fireplace.

As lounge fireplaces go, it was small, only about three feet tall and maybe a little more than five feet long. The grate and logs seemed awkwardly stuffed inside. Sonya stuck her head into the opening and looked up.

The insider had been right: the chimney definitely didn't lead to the outside.

The door opening made her jump, but it was just Michael. "Found it alright, then?" he asked cheerfully, but in a low voice. There was a coiled rope slung over his arm. He also peered up the dark shaft, and for a moment the two just stood there, contemplating the unknown above them.

"That's really far," Sonya whispered. "Do you think we can make it?"

Michael hesitated. "I certainly hope so. Otherwise, why did we come here? First tip, m'lady; if you never know until you try."

He had a point. Taking simultaneous deep breaths, the two spies squeezed into the fireplace. Standing back-to-back, they linked arms. Placing their feet against the walls of the chimney and leaning back on each other, they slowly and laboriously started walking up the walls.

For several minutes, the only sounds were their footsteps and breathing, then Sonya gasped out, "How does he do this? He must be very fit!"

Michael huffed out a laugh. "I don't suppose he does it like this. He probably uses . . . you know . . . magic."

Sonya gulped. Even the mention of that black art made her shiver.

"How did the rumor get started, anyway?" Michael asked curiously. "And why hasn't he already been arrested if there's suspicion?"

"There's no _real_ evidence," Sonya countered. "Like you said, it's just rumor. No one has seen anything."

"Lack of evidence never stopped anyone before," Michael pointed out. "That's what imaginations are for."

"That's usually in cases where the accused have enemies more powerful than they. Mister Javalski doesn't have many enemies like that; he has the ear of the Tsar himself." Sonya grunted as her foot slipped a little. "So, even though most people fear him, there's not really much they can do about it. Half of them are afraid of what he can do to them politically, and the other half are worried that they're right about the magic. What would you do in their shoes?"

Michael didn't answer, instead falling into what Sonya imagined was a contemplative silence.

For a little while, anyway. The female spy got the feeling that he had never in his life kept his mouth shut for a significant amount of time.

"If the rumors are right - if Mister Javalski really _is_ a sorcerer, I mean - do you suppose whatever we're after is a magical object?"

Sonya thought about this. "I think it's very possible. What do you think?"

Michael chuckled. "My cousin certainly seemed to think so. He's a bit of a . . . well, he deals with magical objects a lot. So yes, I think it's very possible that whatever we want _is_ magical in nature. I just wish I knew what it was!"

His voice was frustrated, but it turned curious for a moment as he asked:

"Why do you dislike magic so much anyway?"

The young lady huffed. "You probably think I've got some personal vendetta against it, since I'm so dead set, but really it's nothing like that at all. Well, not really. But I've seen witches. Horrible, _horrible_ people that do awful things!" She shuddered. "I don't scare easily, Mr. Michael, I really don't. The things I've seen those people doing . . . it's like they're not even people anymore; they've been given a great power, and they've fallen prey to it. I've not seen one instance where magic was used for good. It just . . . it's the sign of a corrupted person, that's what I believe."

Michael didn't answer for a second, and when he did his voice was subdued and thoughtful. "I see. Thank you for being so honest."

Sonya's back had started to ache terribly from the strain, and her feet kept on slipping. She cursed her choice of shoes; fashionable, but not much use in climbing walls. Just as she was about to ask for a little break, her foot struck something that was most certainly not brick.

"Is that-?" she hissed. Michael's head banged against her's a little as he nodded.  
>"Could be. Try and find a handle," he whispered back.<p>

After a bit of fumbling - and a heart-wrenching moment when the prospect of falling became very likely - Sonya found a little handle.

"Got it!" she whispered. "It's unlocked, too!"

"Really?" Michael answered. "Hmm . . . "

The handle turned, and the door swung open. Faint light filtered into the chimney. Turning their heads towards each other, the two spies grinned.

"Now how do we get in from the position we're in?" Michael asked.

Sonya looked down. "Um," was her intelligent reply.

It was lucky the two were both stronger than they looked, otherwise the mission might have come to a tragic end right then and there. With some twisting, finagling, impressive contortionism, and more than one instance of someone's face in the other's armpit, the two found themselves in Mister Javalski's private study.

Sonya whistled. "And I thought his lounge was nice."

The floor was made of a beautiful hard wood that glistened like glass. The walls were red as blood, with fine gold thread swirling in it. The desk was of the finest mahogany, and, lit by a singular candle on the desk, the chandelier looked to be made of real crystal.

"That is beautiful," Michael gasped. "Don't we all wish we had houses like this?"

Sonya nodded, too overcome to speak.

Carefully, the English spy held out his hand towards her. "Come on," he said, grinning. "Let's find that vault and skip out of here."

As she took the proffered hand, Sonya gasped. "You're filthy!" she cried.

Michael raised a humorous eyebrow. "Yes, indeed I am. As are you."

The lady groaned slightly as she saw how right he was. Her dress looked almost black with soot, and she dared not search for a mirror to ascertain the state of her hair, which was presumably the color of dirty dishwater. "How did this happen?" she grumbled, examining her soot-stained hands. "It's not even a real fireplace!"

"Yeah, that is weird," the other spy muttered, frowning. "Maybe some servant didn't know that and lighted a fire anyway?" Then he smiled and led her over to the desk. "Don't worry, no one'll see us. That's what the rope's for!" And he gestured towards the window with one rope-filled hand.

"But still . . . " Sonya grumbled, swiping at her shoulders and hair, blushing furiously.

"Still?"

She rolled her eyes. "You wouldn't understand, you're not a girl."

He laughed out loud at that. "You'd be surprised at how many people would have refuted _that_ statement, Sonya, even in jest!"

* * *

><p>"Got it!" the young man said excitedly after a few minutes searching. "It was hidden behind dear ol' Petyr!"<p>

As vaults go, it was rather small, but Sonya supposed this conveyed the admirable sentiment that Mister Javalski didn't have all _that_ much to hide away . . . except here was this whole room hidden above a fireplace. That rather spoiled it.

Triumphantly, Sonya produced the key from her pocket, and the vault door opened silently.

A small bag lay inconspicuously inside. Sonya couldn't decide if she was disappointed it was so unimpressive, or leery that something that small could be so dangerous.

Just as Michael stretched out a hand for the bag, something rippled in the air, and the two became aware of sounds below. They looked at each other.

"Javalski," Sonya breathed, shivering.

"That took longer than I thought it would," Michael muttered, almost to himself, as he grabbed the bag and made for the window. The rippling and shivering in the air became more pronounced, and the two spies stopped and stared as a whirlwind spun into being in the middle of the room. The chandelier waved ponderously, papers flew and scattered, and one of the chairs tipped over. When the hubbub subsided, three figures stood before them: Mister Javalski, and two guards bearing sabers.

For a moment no one said anything, but eyes darted every which way as the two parties observed each other. Sonya nervously sized their three opponents up, though she really didn't want to know what would happen if it came to a fight and the rumors turned out to be true. Because seriously, how do you fight magic when you have no extraordinary power yourself?

Michael suddenly smiled easily. _A __bit __late __for __that__,_ Sonya thought, but the young man didn't say what she expected. Instead, he said, "Mister Javalski! So sorry to bother you, but Miss Tanushka and I will be out of your hair shortly. If you'd please step aside-"

The general was not impressed. "Mr. Elkins, really," he said in an annoyed tone, "I hadn't meant to offend you when I offered you that job. You needn't rob me blind."

Michael looked shocked. "Oh no, Mister Javalski, it's not that at all!" he cried. His face and voice were sorry, but Sonya detected a note of falsity in it. She had the feeling that both the spy and the general were playing with each other - or trying to. "We're not robbing, just . . . relocating something you already relocated." Sonya almost laughed; he had mentioned that Mister Javalski had stolen the artifact.

"I see," Mister Javalski mused sardonically. "And how, may I ask, do you plan on getting past me and my guards? There's a rope, of course, but you'd have to reach the window first. Even the best spy training is no match for . . . my skills."

Sonya bristled at this jab, while stifling unpleasant thoughts. "I think you'll find that we're both more than capable of taking care of ourselves, _Mister_ Javalski."

He bowed slightly in her direction. "No doubt, no doubt, Miss Tanushka - is that even your real name? - but you haven't seen what I can do. And I assure you my henchmen are very well-trained." His face was smug; he considered the battle won. Glancing at Michael's face, Sonya saw that he looked rather amused. She might have wondered what about the situation was so funny, but she had decided that sometimes Michael would be Michael, and not understandable.

Mister Javalski continued. "Would you, perhaps, reconsider my offer?"

Michael's eyebrow went up. "Your offer?"

"I offered you a place in the Russian spy force. And I extend that invitation to you, Miss Tanushka. Both of you seem to be first-class spies. If I hadn't placed a spell on all the doors of the ballroom - a spell that would tell me when anyone had left - I wouldn't even have known about this until you were long gone. What do you say? Either way you are leaving this house without that bag. Whether you leave it in the dead of night, being carried to the river's edge, is up to you."

Michael and Sonya exchanged loaded looks. Was it better, Sonya wondered, to accept and live to fight another day, or die here as martyrs for their beliefs? Mr. Andrei would know what had happened, of course, no matter how covered up it was.

_Was __this __it__? __Was __this __what __caused __Mr__. __Andrei __to __leave __the __official __agency__? __Who __put __Mister __Javalski __in __charge __anyway__?_

They spoke definitely and defiantly, in sync. "No."

Mister Javalski didn't look surprised, but almost sad. He sighed. "Then you leave me no choice." He turned to the henchmen. "Kill them."

Sonya's heart froze; she was determined to go down fighting - but Michael was unmoved. In fact, he mirrored the hitmen as they drew near.

"Yes," the young spy said unexpectedly, causing all to pause. "Kill me. And if you could make it stick, please."

Uncertainty made his opponents exchange confused glances, and he continued. "If you knew how I wanted to die, you would not hesitate to cast the killing stroke. If you knew the agony that burns through my soul at every waking moment, the longing for oblivion that fills my dreams at night, you would cut me down without a second thought. If you knew how alone I was . . . "

Michael gave a soft and ironic laugh, seemingly oblivious to the horror directed at him. "Once upon a time, someone asked me for death. I hesitated. If I had known then what I know now, I would not have denied the Fisher King his wish even for a second."

Again his feet drew nearer to the entranced henchmen, and his mouth moved. "So please . . . thrust home!"

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then, gathering her wits, Sonya struck.

The general, fixated on Michael, received a heel in the foot and sock in the mouth before he reacted, and by that time he wasn't thinking straight. Michael darted forward and punched the right guard in the gut, then pivoted and elbowed the other's nose. Sonya, panicking slightly as Mister Javalski started coming to his senses again, grabbed the candlestick - with the candle still in it - and knocked him over the head. For a moment she was afraid she'd brained him, but was relieved he was only unconscious.

Sonya turned around; Michael's lips twitched in an almost-smile. "Second tip of day, though I can see you already know this: distractions work wonders." Sonya giggled a little, feeling relief bubble up inside of her.

The two henchmen lay prone on the ground. One of them had a little nosebleed. Michael bent over them.

"Still alive," he confirmed. "It would be more thorough to remove all witnesses, but . . . "

He trailed off. Sonya understood.

"They won't go to the police," she reassured him. "Not unless he wants to explain why he has a private study only reachable by the most sturdy of climbers, _and_ how he was beaten by a girl."

Michael snorted, then recovered. "We need to go, before they wake up again."

He moved to the window and opened it; a chill breeze wafted in. He tied the rope around the desk's leg.

"Alright, out you go," the spy gestured her towards the window, but stopped when Sonya called his name. "What? We'd better hurry."

"Yes . . ." Sonya said, suddenly feeling very awkward. "This won't take a moment."

Quickly, before she actually started _thinking_about what she was doing, Sonya stepped closer, grabbed Michael's face, and kissed him soundly. He started, but didn't try and get away. Presently she released him.

"Um, what was that all about?" he questioned, after blinking a few times.

"You said you were alone," she replied. "But you're not. _Trust __me_."

As she clambered into the cold air beyond the sill, she didn't notice tears pricking in his eyes (though perhaps it would not have surprised her to know that they were there).

* * *

><p>When they reached the bottom, Sonya looked up again. "The rope-?" she started, but stopped as a shout and clamor came from beyond the darkness. The alarm had been raised.<p>

Michael grabbed her arm and pulled her away into the darkness. "No time," he said tersely.

They vanished into the night.

A few minutes later, more henchmen rushed to the foot of the building, swords drawn and lanterns held high. The leader tugged at the rope with a scowl. "They've gone already," he muttered, then turned to his men. "Spread out and find them. I need not tell you what will be the consequences if they escape."

No comments were made; the guards obeyed quickly. They peered into trees as they passed, poked bushes, and jumped at small noises.

One of the guards entered the north shed next to the vegetable garden and started overturning tables in it. Stopping for a moment to look around in frustration, he frowned.

"What's that noise?" he muttered to no one in particular. "Is that . . . ?"

Very soon it became clear it _was_. He raced outside just as two horses, probably filched from Mister Javalski's stables, galloped past. The two riders now wore cloaks - possibly from the stables as well - but the guard knew, he just knew, that it was them.

Behind her, Sonya heard the startled henchman raise the alarm, and her heart pounded even quicker than the horses' hooves. She tried not to think about what would happen if they were caught.

Since the guests hadn't left yet - indeed, some were still arriving - the gate still stood wide open, and they raced through it without any trouble. But, glancing back for just a moment, she saw, far back, other horses following them. She dimly wondered what the guests would think was happening; party-crashers, maybe?

"This way!" Michael caught her attention again with his cry, and they wheeled onto one of the main streets. Carriages were still about, and drivers yelled in alarm as they dashed past at high speeds.

The other horses were coming closer. Weaving in and out of the many four-wheeled contraptions, Michael and Sonya led them on a merry fox hunt through the city. At one point, Michael barely missed hitting a carriage head on, turning at the last second. His pursuer's horse saw the carriage and must have realized that its rider did not, because it turned all on its own and headed in completely the wrong direction. The carriage that was almost run-down swerved into a little cart filled with cabbages, which very much obliged the two spies by bursting out of their confines and all over the street with spongy squishes. Utter chaos descended on the street.

Sonya, at least, saw none of this. She only knew there was a moment's reprieve. She briefly worried at the commotion they were causing, but then remembered what Michael had told her while in the stable: "Third tip is to make your exits stylish; people'll be so caught up with the amazing-ness of it, they'll never have time to catch your face. Cloaks also help with this."

She reflected that Michael was a very strange man.

Michael turned his horse onto a more deserted street, then pulled to a stop. Hurriedly swinging off, he gestured for her to follow. "Let's go on foot from now on, the horses are easier to follow." As they raced off, Sonya glanced back; the horses, at first uncertain, were now turning away to go home.

The two were panting when they finally stopped running, standing under the silvery moonlight at the river's edge. They had run quite some way.

"Do you think we lost them?" Sonya gasped, releasing her hitched-up dress and clutching her side instead.

"Oh, definitely," Michael replied. "Everyone knows henchmen are incompetent. I mean, seriously, no imagination! Got rid of them so-"

"Yes, yes," Sonya interrupted impatiently. "Very true. What about Javalski and his magic?"

Michael laughed. a tired but completely confident sound. "Don't worry, Sonya," he said. "Javalski could search from here to the New World and still not find us. We're safe. In order to find us, he'd have to have something from us, and he doesn't."

Something in the way he said it made it very hard for Sonya to doubt his words. She sniffed, slightly annoyed at her unquestioning trust, then she looked at the bag Michael had clutched under his arm. "What about that?" she queried.

The English spy turned the bag over in his hands, curious. "I'll take it back to England with me, give it back to my friend. He'll know what to do with it."

Sonya nodded in acceptance; it hadn't really been her business anyway, so of course she couldn't object to handing it over to someone unknown when they'd gone to so much trouble in retrieving it.

"Alright," she said. "Is that all there is to do?" It seemed to her that the mission had passed in a flash.

"Actually . . . " Michael pursed his lips, and then looked at the bag speculatively.

Sonya caught on quickly. "Are you crazy?" she questioned. She didn't really feel much surprise, except that Michael still didn't know what it was: he seemed like the all-knowing type.

"Possibly. But aren't you curious?"

"Yes, but still . . . what if it's dangerous?"

With a flourish, Michael drew a red handkerchief out of his pocket. "I'll be careful. I won't even touch it."

Curiosity burned in Sonya's veins, but she felt like someone should be careful. "Then please let me back away a little."

The other spy smiled, but didn't dispute that there might be a need for caution. As the young lady stepped back (but not too far back, lest she be unable to see), he wrapped the handkerchief around his hand and reached into the bag. There was a tense moment before he pulled it out again.

Something glinted among the red folds, reflecting moonbeams in every direction. Sonya moved closer, then frowned.

"It's a bracelet," she stated, squinting.

Indeed it was, made from chunky gold with a strange amber stone in the middle. The jewel seemed to chill Sonya's heart as she looked at it.

"What's so dangerous about a bracelet?" she questioned, looking up at Michael.

Her stomach jolted; Michael was staring at the bracelet with the oddest expression: part surprise, part terror, and part . . . that couldn't be hunger . . . could it be?

"Michael?" she whispered.

It took a few repetitions of his name and a shake to draw him out of his daze. "What's the matter?" Sonya demanded. "What is it about this bracelet?"

Michael took a deep breath, looking quite shaken. His voice trembled slightly as he spoke. "It's a magical artifact," he breathed.

"And?" she pressed gently. "How much danger are we in?"

"It's only dangerous if you wear it," he replied. "But it can kill anyone . . . even immortals."

The hungry look was back.

"Michael, what's it called?" She wasn't sure why she asked, but a horror fill her. "What's it called?"

The Englishman looked up again, but his eyes were far away and long ago. Said he, in tones of deepest sorrow and darkest regret, "The Eye of the Phoenix."

**"****Deep ****into ****that ****darkness ****peering****, ****long ****I ****stood ****there****, ****wondering****, ****fearing****, ****doubting****, ****dreaming ****dreams ****no ****mortal ****ever ****dared ****to ****dream ****before****."**

— **Edgar ****Allan ****Poe**

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><p>I had been planning on posting this sooner, but if I had, I wouldn't have gotten a reminder of why I wrote this story in the first place . . . while listening to Elvis! So that was nice:)<p>

Please review!


	7. SEEK

AN: I'm actually rather fond of this chapter. Not sure why, but I enjoy it.

Changes: Just editing.

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><p>Seek<p>

**In ****Which ****Merlin ****Actually ****Enjoys ****Hunting**

_1840_

It was summer, and blazing hot, a heat that stole the breath from the lungs and the water from a sweat-slicked back. Julio, a farmer who had lived on the southern banks of the Rio Bravo for almost thirty years, was weeding his carefully tended vegetable patch when the figure came into view.

In Julio's defense, he had every right and reason to react as he did; there was a war going on, ever since his home state of Nuevo Leon had declared itself independent of its native Mexico. While he tried to stay out of politics, he had two daughters and a home to protect, all three of which were beautiful and well-favored, and he had no wish to lose them. Anyone who came towards Julio's home in the middle of nowhere was a potential enemy.

"Drina! Matilde!" he called to his daughters. "Stay in the house now!"

He stood there, still clutching the spade in his hands. The unfeeling sun beat down on his head, making it ache and swim, but he never removed his eyes from the approaching person. He was used to this feeling anyway: It's what he felt every time he thought of his dead wife.

It wasn't until the man had gotten about twenty feet away that Julio was able to see him clearly, heat waves rippled and distorted him so badly. His visitor was terribly sunburned and dark-haired, a European if Julio ever saw one. He was dressed in a plain white shirt and brown breeches, and a pair of boots that looked like they had seen a better part of the Middle Ages. His head hung low, and Julio knew he was thirsty by the short gasping breaths he took, and the absolute dryness of his clothes. The man also limped terribly, almost dragging his left leg behind him.

The man came within only a few feet of Julio, staggering slightly, but he now stood straight, even in his desperate state. Julio felt a surge of pity: the man couldn't have been older than twenty-five.

"Please, _Señor_," the man managed to rasp out in perfect Spanish. "May I have some water?"

The door behind Julio opened, and his eighteen-year-old Mathilde came out, followed closely by her cautious older sister, Drina. They both watched what their father would do, wide-eyed and silent.

Julio looked back at the visitor, taking in the forced posture and the drooping eyelids. His head was whispering doubts and nos, but his intuition seemed to nod its head.

His intuition had never failed him.

"_Si_," Julio said, not smiling, but willing. "Come in."

He shouldn't have been surprised when the man fainted before they reached the door, but he was, a little. Because the man was so light, it was relatively easy to get him into the house and onto Julio's bed, a small mercy, and he regained consciousness just long enough to sip a little water and tell them his name: "Marcelo."

Marcelo never really told them why he had been wandering around in the middle of the desert, and they never pressed him. He was the kind of person who no one felt awkward around, but that forbid questioning in every form.

Then Marcelo, after regaining his strength for a week, went out and asked if he could help with anything.

Julio said yes.

No one questioned why Marcelo didn't leave. He showed signs to trying to, simply because he didn't want to be a burden, but was always silently forbidden by the girls, with their pleading looks and adeptness at hiding important things, and even, on one memorable occasion, Julio himself. Julio found he didn't want the younger man gone under any circumstance. He was a great help with everything, be it 'man's' work or 'woman's' work, Marcelo saw no distinction.

And for some strange reason, it simply felt safer when Marcelo was around, like the time several months later, when Michelmas had just gone, when a platoon of rowdy _Americanos_ came and bothered Drina and Mathilde as they were gathering water from the well. Marcelo had seen them (somehow), and went out. The other three never knew what the man said to the horsemen, but they left posthaste, even though he was skinny as a corn stalk and seemed no stronger than a beanpole.

Despite this, it wasn't until Nuevo Leon and its neighboring states had been brought back into the union (which Julio, as a true Mexican, liked very much) that Julio and his family fully appreciated the usefulness of Marcelo.

Julio lived in a part of Nuevo Leon that was rather uninhabited. The farm was directly on the border with the Mexican territory of Texas, against the river (which was known as the Rio Grande in the States), and he had been largely left alone by both the separatists and the American invaders from the north. He and his family hadn't had to deal with much of the turmoil that was currently rocking his part of the world.

But all that was about to change. It didn't take much for Julio to realize he could not take the middle ground on this; he had to choose a side.

It started one day near the end of the year. Though snow never fell where they lived, Julio always felt the need to make a special trip to Nuevo Laredo in the winter, a trip of almost forty kilometers. Julio usually made the trip in a little less than a week, two days there, one, maybe two days buying and loading the supplies, and two days back. When the children were younger, he would go alone, but when his wife died he was forced to drag his children all the way there and back, which was not enjoyable for anyone. But now that Marcelo was here, maybe he could start going alone again, and leave the younger man to watch everything.

The three 'youngsters' didn't like the idea of Julio going into the wilderness alone. "Papa, you are not as young as you once were," Drina argued. "You could be injured, and then what would become of us?" They wanted Marcelo to go and get the supplies.

Any argument on Julio's part was stopped short a few days before his planned departure. He was fixing a leak on the roof, fell, and sprained his ankle so badly he could not walk without help. The the matter was settled: Marcelo would go to Nuevo Laredo.

Now Julio found himself incredibly nervous about Marcelo's leaving. He had come to regard the young man as a close friend, and it was dangerous out there! What if Marcelo was hurt, or got lost? He made Marcelo repeat the directions ten times, which might have been ridiculous since all he had to do was follow the river, but still, Julio felt uncharacteristically uneasy. Something would go wrong here, he just knew it.

Marcelo left not long after the sun arose in late November. He hitched up the horse, loaded the wagon, hugged the girls, and shook hands with a crutches-bound Julio. And as he drove off . . . well, perhaps it had been Julio's imagination, but it seemed like Marcelo turned to look back one too many times, like he was also worried.

Drina, seeing her father's unease, took his arm and squeezed it. "Don't worry, Papa, Marcelo can take care of himself."

This did nothing to make Julio feel better; dreams of fire and pain still haunted him for the next two nights. The days were spent sitting outside, hating his helplessness, and watching his daughters do twice the work.

In the end, he realized that it was not Marcelo that needed taking care of.

The third day, men came to their house, about fifty. Soldiers. Wary and skittish, and led by a man named Gil Hieronimo. He practically forced his way into the house, yelling for Marcelo. Julio had never been so insulted in his life.

"What is it you want, _Señor__?_" he demanded, limping towards them from the back room and scowling.

Hieronimo turned towards him. "Where's Marcelo? I know he's here, we've been following his tracks for almost a year. He's here, Mateo tells me so. Where is he?"

The girls had been weaving, and now appeared, frightened and confused. Julio, fearing they would actually say where Marcelo was to these strange men, spoke first, struggling to keep his voice calm. No need to antagonize anyone.

"Marcelo left," he replied. "He's gone. He isn't coming back. So you can leave my house and search for him elsewhere."

Hieronimo glanced out of the doorway; another man stood there, tired and beaten-looking, slouching. The man sighed and started to whisper under his breath, his eyes turning the color of the summer sun. Julio let out a soft gasp. _Was__that__magic__?_ he wondered, and maybe the answer is obvious, he doesn't know.

The man, whose name later turned out to be Mateo, shakes his head.

"I can't be sure, _Señor_, this spell is made for finding sorcerers only, and if he hasn't been using magic-"

"Why wouldn't he be using magic?" Hieronimo snapped, losing his patience. "He's supposed to be a very powerful wizard, of course he's going to use magic!"

Mateo said nothing, but his eyes were doubtful.

Hieronimo turned to the confused family, furious. "Well, if we can't find him, let him find us. We'll take these three; everyone knows he has a weakness for people. If he doesn't want to join us, he can pay the price."

Mateo sighed, but some of the more crazed individuals in the party snickered. Julio was just realizing what was happening. This man was looking for Marcelo. He was now going to kidnap Julio and his two daughters in order to lure Marcelo into some sort of trap. Perhaps Julio should have been less worried for his friend and more worried about his family.

Being tied up is never comfortable. Julio had always suspected this, in the glancing moments he thought about it, but it was seeing his precious daughters bound as well that made him the most angry. He went so far as pleading for their leniency, begging like some sort of dog. Julio was not a proud man, but even this was blow. Still, no one listened.

It was a small mercy that they were given horses of their own, and didn't have to share with anyone else. This was a great relief for the poor farmer.

They went south, going downwards towards Monterrey, avoiding any large settlements. The sun, though less intense than it would be in the summer, was still hot and dry. Occasionally as rainstorm would sweep through, sometimes accompanied by lightning and thunder, playing a drum roll and puppet-show display on the tents. Even though it was mostly healed, Julio's ankle still protested at being walked on, and he limped almost as badly as Marcelo.

He and his daughters also tried to demand information from their captors, constantly questioning. Mostly they were ignored, but sometimes they would have a 'friendly' guard who spoke a little.

"I'm not exactly sure," said one on the fourth night from home, answering Mathilde's inquiry as to why they wanted to find Marcelo. He went on the explain that Hieronimo was trying to depose the Mexican President in order to become the next tyrant. "How this Marcelo in help with this is beyond me, I've never met the man, though."

Mathilde's next question was about Mateo, and the guard found him a fascinating, if scary, subject.

"Hieronimo should know magic is evil and wrong, he's Christian, and don't Christians burn witches?" the man said, then shuddered. "He's been using spells to try and track Marcelo, who's a sorcerer too, from what I gather. It's not going very well though. That's why we're taking you; to lure him in."

Everyone seemed to agree that Marcelo was a magic-user, everyone except the prisoners. Julio had never seen his helper perform any spell of any sort, but now doubts were circulating in his head. Maybe Marcelo had known they were coming, and had made Julio fall off the roof, so he could go to Nuevo Laredo and escape. Maybe he had been using them.

Yes, but why? From what Julio had been able to see of Mateo's spells, magic could do pretty much anything. Why would Marcelo need them to hide himself? If he did have magic he could use, why hadn't he used it? Why had he come to Julio's home and asked for water, and why stay? Julio couldn't figure it out, and from the contemplative and sometimes annoyed expressions that marred his daughters' pretty features, they couldn't either. It was possibly the more frustrating problem they had ever encountered - Marcelo, friend or foe? Saint or scoundrel? Devotee or demon?

They didn't know.

"Why are we going so slowly?" one of the men complained (quietly, of course) about a week later. "At this rate, it'll take us weeks to reach Monterrey alone!"

His companion shushed him, not knowing that Drina could still hear. "I don't know. You'd think Marcelo could find us wherever we were. Maybe Hieronimo just wants to get to the President as soon as possible."

They never made it to the President, or Monterrey. Any of them.

Julio had been feeling shifty all day, like he was riding the horse wrong. Something nagging, something not right, something coming, he simply knew it. His intuition had never failed him. So he hugged close to the girls and jumped at small noises.

But, of course, nothing happened that day, nor the next. They were drawing close to more rocky places, places where it was hard to see all around, and it made him nervous. His dream of fire did nothing to ease his jitters.

On the tenth day, just as Julio was slipping from an uncomfortable consciousness to an even more uncomfortable sleep, a sound jolted him from the flickering red tongues that drew nearer, namely, the sound of Marcelo's voice beckoning him to wakefulness.

Before Julio could speak, Marcelo had slipped a hand over his mouth and finger to his own lips, shaking his head. A knife slipped easily through the ropes, freeing his hands, and Marcelo looked over at two girls. Julio grabbed his arm.

"What are you doing?" he asked as quietly as he could, almost mouthing the words. "These men want you to help them take over Mexico-"

"I know-"

"They'll capture you!"

"Trust me, they won't. I've only abstained from using magic so they wouldn't find me. Now I won't hold back."

"What about the President? Heaven knows I don't agree with everything he does, but it'll throw the country into anarchy, those Americans will take any chance they can get-"

Again Marcelo interrupted him. "Don't worry so much, Julio, I have everything under control."

It was only after Marcelo had repeated his waking treatment on Drina that Julio realized how he had reacted to Marcelo's confirmation of his magic, it was almost like he hadn't said anything out of the ordinary.

_It __doesn__'__t __matter__,_ he realized. _I __didn__'__t __really __care __ever __that __he __was __a __sorcerer__, __or __whatever __they __call __them__. __He__'__s __Marcelo__. __He __couldn__'__t __hurt __a __fly__._

Marcelo had always seemed so clumsy before, but now he walked softer than any of them. His age-old boots padded soft as a cat's against the dry sand, and only when they had reached the relative safety of the tumbleweed did he stop.

"I have to go back and do something, you three stay here," he whispered, and immediately there were soft protests.

"Marcelo, you can't go back alone!" Mathilde gasped. "They have guns!"

"At least let us help," Drina said, and Julio seconded that motion.

Marcelo shook his head. "No, I'll be fine, I've got magic." The girls shot each other looks, but nothing was said. "Their guns won't stop me, and this is something only I can do. Please, stay here."

And he was gone, slinking towards the firelight again. The little family stared after him, unsure of what to do. "He's going to get hurt," Mathilde whimpered, her face as worried as anyone's could get.

Julio didn't know what to do. He had no doubt that Marcelo could take care of himself, but fire-oh fire, he was scared of . . . fire, why was he scared of fire, at a time like this? What did fire have to do with anything?

There was a cry, a shout, and a mushroom-shaped cloud of flames flared up above the camp, glowing like the sun, menacing, making the three fall backwards in alarm.

Fire.

Julio didn't think; he was up and running before the fallout came. Men ran and screamed, instinctively darting away from the inferno. Horses strained against leads, struggling, and tents burned with red and orange light.

Even in the confusion, it wasn't hard to find Marcelo. There they both were, the two sorcerers, locked in some sort of fearsome duel to the death, shields and green slime flying everywhere. Marcelo looked to be entirely on the defensive-the bored defensive. Mateo would flash out some spell, and Marcelo would block it with seeming ease.

He didn't look bored though. He looked sad, and angry, and intense, all at the same time. He was speaking too, in between each blow to his shield.

"So that's it, is it?" he yelled, and Julio added incredulous to the list of emotions. "That's your answer?"

Mateo didn't reply. His attacks were becoming more and more desperate, flying every which way and they were less controlled.

"You idiot!" Marcelo shouted, literally shaking with anger. "Are you-you are-ugh!" He stamped his foot, and the earth trembled, as if it too was scared of Marcelo's rage.

Mateo stopped fighting, and instead glared, his chest heaving with exertion. "That's easy for you to say!" He said right back. "_Señor_ 'Immortal' Marcelo. Don't see you having to fight for anything!"

Marcelo's eyes narrowed. "You make it sound like I asked for this."

"Well, didn't you?"

"No. Why would I? Why would I want this, this is . . . is . . ."

He obviously couldn't find an accurate description for what it was, and so stopped trying. "You think you want this, Mateo, but trust me, you don't. This is not anything anyone is their right mind would want."

"You only say that because you don't want it," Mateo retorted, snorting. "But I do. This things I could accomplish if I had all the time in the world-"

"Like what?" Marcelo flung at him, the anger returning. "Like conquering the world?" He was distressed by this, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, his hands gripping his hair. "For what? For power? You-there isn't a word for people like you! And all for power!"

Tears glittered in his eyes, his breath hitched, even from so far away Julio and his daughters could hear it, a kind of sound that made you feel like joining. Heart-wrenching and sickeningly real.

Marcelo was gasping for air now, trying to calm his raging emotions, composing himself. Mateo was staring at him; this was not something anyone saw everyday.

"The lust for power has taken everything away from me," Marcelo said as soon as he could speak without sobbing. "I'm not going to let you-or Hieronimo-do the same to anyone else."

He suddenly darted forward, lightening fast, and grabbed Mateo's arm. He spoke three words, three words only, and even a flame couldn't have made his eyes glitter like that. Mateo gasped and clutched his head, like he had a particularly bad migraine, but it was too late for him; It seemed like a ripple of color was traveling down Marcelo's arm to Mateo, like a moving wrinkle on his shirt. Marcelo's eyes were narrowed in concentration, his jaw clenched, but he never wavered.

Mateo collapsed on the ground, and Marcelo almost followed him, sagging with exhaustion. The sorcerer's head lowered for a moment, as if in prayer, then he staggered towards the family.

_His __family__,_ thought Julio, and went out to assist him.

They took four of the horses and rode off; Marcelo assured them Mateo was alive and could take care of himself.

"I can't take his magic away, there wasn't enough time nor did I have the equipment to do that, but I blocked it. Hopefully it's permanent." He looked away, into the desert night. A coyote howled mournfully. "Without magic, Hieronimo has no hope of defeating the Mexican army, not with such a small force. They're finished."

His voice sounded forcefully cheerful. Julio wondered how the two magic-users had known each other, and Marcelo's despaired cry about power taking everything from him. Drina, at that moment, brought up what Hieronimo might do (like take revenge), and their thoughts turned elsewhere.

The next day, about an hour after they had started going again, Julio spoke up. "So what's this I hear about you and immortality?" he questioned. Marcelo grimaced.

"Right," he said. "That. I guess I'd better tell you." He cleared his throat, and began. "Well, to make a very, very long story short . . . -er . . ."

He then proceeded to answer their questions. Well, most of them. And what answers they were! Fantastic and strange, but it was impossible not to believe every word. They talked, argued, laughed, and listened long after they had camped for the night.

But it was not until the fourth night that he found the courage to ask the question he desperately craved the answer to. Julio was not normally one to beat around the bush, but this . . . . this was not anything he had encountered before.

The sun had only set about an hour before, and the sky was still tinged fainting blue and purple. An approaching storm was looming in the north, white clouds shifting closer. Marcelo was standing quite far from the camp, watching them approach, and Julio left his daughters to their girl things to join him.

"Very nice, isn't it?" Marcelo said conversationally, and suddenly Julio got the feeling the younger man knew why he was being approached. He coughed nervously.

"_Si_, _hermosa_," he agreed. They were standing shoulder to shoulder now, in awkward silence. Finally Julio broke it.

"You know what I'm going to say, don't you?"

"Yes. The dreams?"

"Yes."

"But more than that. Feelings? Like instinct, except almost worse?"

"Quite. Do you think . . . ?" He found it hard to say.

Marcelo turned and looked him in the eye, slightly amused. "That it's magic? That you're dreaming the future? Yes, I do."

For some reason, Julio found this exceedingly comforting. "Good, that's good. And what do I do about it?"

The sorcerer's dark eyebrows raised in surprise, and he almost laughed. "I suppose it depends. Can you bear learning the key to controlling it from a man that is . . . well, not half your age, but appears to be?"

Julio snorted. "Are you sure you can handle it?"

This time Marcelo did laugh, the laugh that had endeared him to who knows how many listeners. "Wait and see," he said. "You just wait and see.

**"****Friendship ****is ****unnecessary****, ****like ****philosophy****, ****like ****art ****. . . ****It ****has ****no ****survival ****value****; ****rather ****it ****is ****one ****of ****those ****things ****which ****give ****value ****to ****survival****."**

— **C****.****S****. ****Lewis**

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><p>I'd like to hear your thoughts on this . . .<p> 


	8. EXPERIENCES

AN: And re-enter the Evans family, stage right! Just a reminder, Merlin is Martin, and his three sisters are Divina, Melinda, and Anne. Enjoy!

Changes: Nothing earthshaking.

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><p>Experiences<p>

**In ****Which ****Life ****Goes ****On****, ****Somehow**

_2006_

As Merlin was in his study reading, Divina came in, her thick black hair swinging down, and her pretty face, usually calm and contained, slightly bemused. She came right up to the desk and stood there, waiting patiently.

Merlin set his book aside; this was obviously important. "Do you want the door closed?" he inquired, nodding towards the said object, which was open so anyone could hear, but Divi shook her head.

"No, this is a purely academic question," she replied, and Merlin became very interested. Though his sister had a lot to be desired in the 'showing emotions' department (just like a certain blond he had known years ago), she was very clever, and always thought of the most thought-provoking questions for him-and sometimes her tagging along-to solve.

He smiled. "Fire away, then."

For some reason, Divi seemed unusually uncertain, she who was so self-assured. "It's rather a stupid question," she said, smiling a little, "but I was curious."

Her brother nodded. "That's fine, I'd imagine a lot of discoveries are made by people asking 'stupid' questions."

Divi nodded, slightly assured, and began. "Well, you know about black holes, of course?"

Merlin's brow scrunched. "Black holes? Do you mean pits that are so deep they look black, or stars that have collapsed so far they are basically mathematical points?"

"The latter. I just wondered . . . it's true that not even light can escape, right?"

"Theoretically, yes," was the slow reply.

"All right then. Do you suppose it would possible-after you've crossed the even horizon and somehow not been spaghettified and burnt to a crisp-to escape a black hole by teleporting out?"

There was a moment of silence, while Merlin leaned back in his chair, stumped. _Thought__-__provoking __question__, __indeed__,_ was his first thought, then the scientific part of him took over, dragging him across the universe and the infinite possibilities . . .

He stood up, saying absentmindedly, "Let me get back to you on that."

Merlin, so absorbed in his thoughts, didn't notice the slightly alarmed expression on Divina's usually calm face.

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><p><em>2006<em>

Anne brought home a boyfriend around the time they moved to Belfast. Now, usually this would have been fine (even though she was only sixteen, _way_too young to be dating, at least in Merlin's eyes), except he knew the boyfriend.

_Urk__. __What __is _Gwaine _doing __here__? _he thought as the two entered the house, almost choking on his water.

Anne pulled Gwaine - except that couldn't be his name anymore - closer, her face eager.

"Martin," she said, "meet Glen."

'Glen's' mouth stretched in his trademark grin. His hair was shorter, and better groomed, and he wore more modern clothes (obviously), but it was still Gwaine. Apparently he hadn't changed much.

"How do you do?" he said, holding out a hand. "Anne's told me all about you, Martin."

Merlin took the hand and shook, struggling to hide the two sudden emotions he felt, joy (because it was _Gwaine_, or close enough), and annoyance that he just had to go for his sister.

_Glen __and __Anne__._ He thought about it for about ten seconds.

_No__. __Absolutely __not__. __It __will __never __work__._

His prediction came true. Their relationship lasted two weeks, and they parted on amicable terms. Glen still hung about the house a lot, which Merlin was fine with. Glen was very easy to get used to - after all, he was what was left of Gwaine. And everyone knows how Gwaine was.

What he did not expect (though perhaps he should have) was when Glen and Melinda started dating. They lasted a bit longer, almost a month, and it helped that they were almost the same age, but still: _Glen __and __Melinda__?_

_No__._

It was the last straw when he came home from work one day to find Divina unexpectedly gone, and when he asked where she was, the two other girls replied she was out with Glen.

"The last of the Evans sisters," Melinda said, smirking. "I wouldn't be surprised if this was Glen's plan all along."

Merlin frowned, and left the room.

This was getting out of hand.

_I __mean__, __seriously__. __Glen__, __and __Divina__. __Um__ . . . __NO__._

It turned out he had jumped to conclusions on this one. Divina came home at nine o'clock, and answered Merlin's 'subtle' interrogation with:

"Don't be stupid, Martin, he and I aren't dating. We were buying a birthday present for a mutual friend." She smiled in amusement at her brother's relieved expression. "I'm not an idiot, I know he's not my type. And please, stop worrying about me, I'm nineteen years old, I can take care of myself."

As she walked away, Merlin smiled. He always knew he liked that girl.

* * *

><p><em>2011<em>

It happened as Anne was walking home one cold evening. She had had a hard day, keeping up with the patients, and was ready for a hot bath when she got home.

The street was empty.

This was unusual.

It was warmer than it should have been. A sweet smell, like a tropical island, wafted up her nostrils.

She shivered, and turned around, knowing, or at least suspecting, what she'd see there.

An enormous griffin, insubstantial as steam and rather colorless, stood in front of her. It seemed to be sniffing the air, searching for something.

Anne screamed.

She ran.

* * *

><p><em>1999<em>

"Show me something big. Show me something fancy, something flashy. We're always learning useful magic, I'd like to see something that looks good."

Martin turned to look at his twelve-year-old sister, as always solemn and serious, and smiled. "Something that looks good?" He tapped his chin, thinking. "Hmm, that's an interesting request."

They were in the kitchen. The two younger girls were somewhere else, doing homework or playing, Divina didn't know. For the past two years, Martin had been teaching them simple spells, things any sorcerer their ages would be learning, healing and the like. But Divina secretly yearned for a challenge; she hated sitting still and learning easy things. She wanted something that went _bang_. She wanted to see big magic.

Her 'brother' suddenly grinned. "I know just the thing," he announced, and led her over to the table. On it rested salt and pepper, a few forks (Melinda was supposed to clear the table after dinner, but she was being lazy), and a glass. Martin removed the shakers, and beckoned her closer.

"Now," he said, "the first thing you must understand about this spell is that I never want you to attempt it yourself, not until you are much older. It's immensely difficult, and it would be incredibly dangerous - for you and others - if you got it wrong. The spell itself doesn't set a boundary for the effects, so you must do that with something else." He took the saltshaker. "Salt works nicely." Martin sprinkled a white line along the edge of the table. "That should contain it. Now, the words are this-"

He fixed his eyes on the center of the makeshift circle, and said clearly, "_Bregdan __awendan_," and made a shifting movement to the right with his hand.

The forks and the glass fell and rolled in the direction of his gesture, moving fast. By the time they crossed the line and the spell stopped, their momentum was enough to get them off the table. They fell with a _clatterplonkscreech _on the floor.

Divina stared, then turned to Martin.

"Gravity," he explained. "It's a gravity control spell. Now you see why it's dangerous? I could have destroyed this whole room - this whole house! - if I'd set the boundaries wide enough."

She didn't respond, shocked into silence at the rather amazing spectacle.

"Good-looking enough for you?" he asked.

Divina had no idea what to say.

* * *

><p><em>2004<em>

One Tuesday, not long after Melinda turned sixteen, Merlin was standing in the kitchen, very calmly making breakfast, when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of dark hair come in.

"So Divi," he said, and turned around, fully intending to ask his sister some question. This question was lost forever, when his eyes landed on the sister that was actually standing behind him, a small hopeful smile plastered on her lips and her hands twisting nervously in front of her.

It was not often that Merlin could be taken by surprised. He was after all more than a thousand years old; he had seen pretty much everything.

But this . . . this was . . . new.

And that was putting it politely.

"Lin?" He was practically gaping. "My goodness, girl, _what __have __you __done __with __your __hair_?"

Melinda's smile vanished. "You don't like it?" she asked uncertainly, touching her head, and then Merlin's brain caught up with his mouth. Had he seriously just said that out loud?

"Er, well, it's certainly different," he replied neutrally.

Normally, Lin's hair was a fiery ginger, very noticeable next to Anne's golden curls and Divina's black waves, and it had hardly ever been cut, falling unhindered to her waist.

She had certainly given herself a makeover; the fire-colored locks were gone, replaced by hair that couldn't have been more than two inches long, and had been dyed almost the same color as her older sister's. In fact, like this she rather resembled a female Merlin.

He almost shuddered at the thought.

"So . . ." he said, because the silence was becoming rather awkward. "May I ask the reason behind the sudden change in style? It suits you very well," he added hastily, and funnily enough, it did. "But why?"

Lin smiled nervously, and turned a little pink. This was enough to catch Merlin's interest.

"Well, here's the thing: my teacher wants us the come to school today dressed up as our heroes!"

There was a moment of silence, as Merlin looked at her, waiting for her to continue, and she looked at him, waiting for some sudden comprehension. When none came, her lips tightened, and she continued almost angrily.

"_Anyway_, I was wondering if I could borrow one of your shirts?"

His eyebrows still drawn together in confusion, Merlin cocked his head and smiled slightly, the picture of obtuse-ness. "Sure," he replied obligingly, and he watched as Lin stalked out of the kitchen in a huff.

It was only after she was upstairs and raging to her sisters about the denseness of stupid older brothers that he allowed himself a small knowing smile.

* * *

><p><em>2010<em>

Really, Anne shouldn't have been surprised when Martin came racing into the house dragging her friend Gina Leonowens by the hand. It shouldn't have surprised her, because it was Gina's wedding day. And she didn't really want to marry her fiancé.

Yep. Not surprising at all.

To be fair, Luis Dularo (he being Gina's paramour) didn't really want to marry her either. But both their parents were old, and had been set on their two children marrying since practically their birth. Plus the two were very good friends, despite living in different countries (Gina was English, but studying in Ireland, and Luis was Spanish), and they figured romance would blossom.

So, it was an awkward situation.

Anne met Gina Leonowens working at the local blood bank. They were both twenty, both trainee nurses (Anne still couldn't understand why Martin had practically burst into tears when she mentioned her profession of choice), and though Anne tended to be cynical, complaining, and sarcastic, she liked Gina's kind, mothering nature, her soft eyes and beautiful dark skin. She was the sort of person everyone loved right off the bat. She had brought Gina home a couple of times, for dinner and basically a girls'-night-in with her sisters, and Martin had instantly fallen in love with her (he must have; that was the only explanation Anne could think of for the smile that came to his face the moment he had laid eyes on Gina).

Life was good. Then, for some reason, Gina went to Martin - not Anne, not Melinda or Divi, not even her own brother - with her troubles.

"It's practically an arranged marriage!" Martin had told them later on. "They don't love each other as anything but friends, and their parents won't listen!" He had then gone into his study and thought for about three hours.

Really, someone should have guessed he was up to something.

Or rather, that the three of them (Martin, Gina, and Luis) were up to something, because when the Martin and Gina came stumbling through the door, one dressed in his normal T-shirt and jeans, the other in a flowing white gown, Gina didn't seem the least surprised.

She was laughing. _Laughing_.

"Ah-hahaha, that was probably the most rebellious thing I have ever done in my life!" she gasped, clutching a stitch in her side; evidently they had run all the way from the church. "What will my parents think of me now?"

Martin was clutching the wall, he was laughing so hard. "I'm sure they'll live, Luis will explain everything." He reached into his back pocket and brought out two rather crumpled pieces of paper. "Here's your plane ticket to London," he said, "and a letter of recommendation to Sir David McCarthy. He's an old friend of mine, and he's looking for a nurse to care for his wife."

Gina glowed; she had always wanted to be a hospice nurse. "Oh Martin!" she said, almost crying, and she flung her arms around him. "How can I ever repay you? I never asked for a job, and you've given me one anyway!"

Martin laughed. "Careful, Gwen, you'll break my ribs!"

Gina leaned back, giving him a weird look, and Anne snorted. "Gwen? Sure you aren't mistaking her for someone else?"

Martin went red. "Oh, er, sorry, Gina, don't know what I was thinking." He laughed softly, and then swiftly extricated himself from Gina's embrace. "Well, you'd better be going, your flight leaves in two hours," he reminded her, and she giggled.

"Right, of course, sorry for forgetting myself there."

Martin, being Martin and thoughtful, already had Gina's suitcase with all the things she would need when she went to London. Anything else Luis would bring with him when he returned to university in the fall.

There were last minute hugs, and thank yous. Gina cried some more. Anne, faced with the possibility that she wouldn't see her friend for quite some time, somehow quelled tears herself. Martin was laughing and comforting as always, hailing a cab and carrying her case. But Anne knew he was sad to see her go. _Of __course__, __he__'__s __in __love __with __her__,_ but that joke seemed old now, in the face of Gina's actual departure.

In that moment, Anne really wished she could move to London. She loved Belfast and all - Ireland was the country of her birth - but really . . .

As soon as the taxi was out of sight, she had made up her mind.

"So," said she, "when are we moving to London?"

Martin turned to her, and his smile was rather amused. "Funny you should ask that," he replied. "I was just thinking the same thing myself. Should we announce the good news to your sisters during dinner?"

* * *

><p><em>2011<em>

Anne fumbled with her key and nearly snapped it in half. She had run half way across London, trying to escape the griffin, and was tired, out of breath, and not a bit cold.

The house was empty, not something entirely unknown. Divi had an evening class, Melinda had probably gone to someone's house, and Martin tutored in the evenings.

She shivered, any warmth gained by her running gone. Although small, the house seemed cold and sinister. Her hands trembling, she poured herself some milk and heated it.

Terrified and heart-sore, she wept.

The door opened. "Anne?

Her heart leaped.

_Martin_.

_2011_

It was summer, and Divi had no school and no job (unfortunately). Most of her friends were off on holidays, magic could only be practiced so much before it became dangerous to her health, her sisters and brother (lucky dogs) _had_jobs, and so most of the time it was just her in the house, cleaning, cooking, weeding, all of which were not jobs she enjoyed (she was an attorney-in-training, not a housewife).

When she mentioned this to Martin (she was not complaining, Divina Evans _never_whined), he suggested she get the boxes from the attic, the ones that hadn't been opened since they moved, and sort through them.

She agreed, and started to lug the boxes down to the living room, to go through in her spare time.

_It__'__s__amazing__the__junk__you__can__pick__up__over__the__years__,_ she thought, and it was true; old clocks, baby rattles, numberless concourses of books, everything and anything someone could want. Martin had had years to collect things, and collect he did.

It was something like the third week of doing this that she finally found something really interesting: a diary. Smirking, she opened it and recognized her brother's semi-neat handwriting.

_18__th __March__ 1992_

_So__, __a __funny __thing __happened __today__. __Helen __came __up __to __me __and __started __off __our __conversation __by __saying__-_

_**To **__**be **__**continued**__** . . .**_

**"****In ****three ****words ****I ****can ****sum ****up ****everything ****I****'****ve ****learned ****about ****life****: ****it ****goes ****on****."**

— **Robert ****Frost**

* * *

><p>I know, <em>such<em> a cliffhanger, isn't it? I'll try not to keep y'all waiting too long :)

Guest: Thank you!

Until next time!


	9. LUCKY

AN: Not sure how I feel about this chapter. It has flaws, mainly because I am _not_ cut out to be a mystery writer. Oh well, I tried, LOL;) Hope you like it anyway.

Changes: Just a trim.

* * *

><p>Lucky<p>

**In ****A ****Manner ****Of ****Speaking****, ****Anyway**

_18__th __March__, 1992_

So, a funny thing happened to me today. Helen came up to me and started off our conversation by saying-

"Hey Myron, will you give me away?"

Now, tell me this: What would you have said? I dare you to say that you would have had any clue what she was talking about.

"Uh . . . it depends. How much would you sell for?"

She gave me The Look, the half-amused, half-exasperated expression that I'm pretty sure is a trademark of Helen Venizelos.

"I meant at my wedding, Myron, _my __wedding_."

I actually hadn't been aware she was engaged, but it's not like it was a surprise; she had been dating one of the other technicians for almost a year. "Oh yes? So Tobi finally proposed, did he?"

She nodded, smiling. Helen, as I know I've mentioned before, is usually very content and smiling, but now she seemed to almost burst with happiness. No wonder: Tobi is a fantastic person - no, they both are, she's sweet and he's funny, and they're both amazingly brilliant. You don't get to work at a university hospital by being stupid, after all. Which of course means _I__'__m _not stupid (_wink__, __wink_), since I'm now a senior staff member, and a mentor to half the other techs, including Helen. How's that for someone who's only worked here for two and a half years, and isn't a native Greek to boot!

Was that boasting? Yes, yes it was. I feel I don't do that enough.

Anyway . . . I agreed. Helen and I have been very good friends since she started working here, and although it was a strange request (I'm only twenty-one years old, I'm not her father!), I didn't feel like I could refuse. This could be a once in a lifetime experience! Well, except for that other time . . . but we don't talk about that.

* * *

><p><em>19<em>_th __March__, 1992_

Why do I feel like someone is reading over my shoulder, breathing down my neck? Perhaps it's a ghost. Or maybe it's a premonition of things to come, someone in my future reading this. Yes, I think that's right. But who?

. . . spiders? Okay, that's random, why'd I think that? Something to do with whoever's reading this, I think. Spiders? Randomosity, eh? But I'm sure you know all about those spiders, don't you? So I can move on to things _not_ of the future.

Today, Helen and Tobi formally announced their engagement to the entire workplace, and people were clamoring to assist them in any way possible. Alekto, one of the veteran secretaries in our department, was assigned with designing the invitations, while Miles, a nurse whose hobby is designing, was asked to find the most tasteful shade of green possible, one that would match Helen's strawberry blonde hair perfectly. Berenice, a down-on-her-luck bachelorette and receptionist/computer lover, would have helped, but didn't bother offering; the poor girl's very clumsy. Helen was showing off her ring all over the place (no one, not even Helen, is above grabbing her bragging rights with both hands and running). Since I am to give her away, they seemed to think that was all I should do.

_. . . ._ That's going to happen.

And there's something about that ring, like it's almost familiar. But that can't be true, can it?

* * *

><p><em>23<em>_rd __March__, 1992_

Oh office drama, the bane of every worker's existence - unless of course you're Alekto, in which you eat it up with a runcible spoon. But I'm not Alekto, and I have had enough drama in my lifetime to last me a . . . um . . . eternity, what without Aella watching the stunning Khloe when he thinks no one's looking, and everyone teasing Berenice's bad luck-

_*__sigh__*_

So, dear reader, the one with the spiders, whomever you may be, let me explain.

Someone has stolen Helen's engagement ring.

Yes, I know, I sound insensitive, and it is bad, it's her ring, she's getting married, she's not happy, Tobi's not happy, but that's not the point, that's not the real drama. Helen, being Helen, isn't accusing anyone, but what about Aella? He's certainly not above pointing a couple fingers. The problem is, he's pointing them in the entirely wrong direction, at my desk mate, Zoe.

Zoe is not a thief. She has never been a thief, and she will never be a thief. Trust the prophetic visions, they never lie. She's been working here for about three and a half years now, and I know my judgement of character isn't that bad, she would never stoop to thievery. Zoe's one of those people that is rather quiet, but either you love her because she's so cute and naive and shy, or you hate her because she's what you might call the perfect employee; always on time, always does what she's asked, doesn't talk back, you know the kind - almost too wonderful to be true. A rare breed, if you ask me. Aella is not her opposite (not quite), but he certainly dislikes her.

The whole thing spawned an argument in the office. Mostly I sat back, content to watch and intervene at intervals, but what can a man do? Alekto tapped her teeth, listening intently, Zoe denied knowing anything, Aella insulted everything from Berenice's face ("Your nose is _lopsided__!_") to Zoe's religion ("I mean, seriously, who believes in the _Olympian __gods _anymore?"), and it finally ended when Dr. Alkyone entered and glared.

But what do I think? Who do I think did it? Do I think it was Khloe, a flirtatious nurse? Could it have been Spyros, very aptly named because of his sharp eyes and ears, and light fingers? What about Magan, almost overtly cheerful and stupefyingly young for an almost-doctor?

There aren't many facts in this case, no evidence, no nothing. Even so, I have my suspicions. If I were to know for certain, I would tell someone, but I don't, so even you will get the silent treatment on this. All the same, you might figure it out before I do, so listen carefully.

Here are the facts:

It went missing the day before yesterday, between two-thirty and three-fifteen. Helen had taken it off in order to make some bread (I know what you're thinking: _Making __bread __at __work__? __Why__?_ I'll tell you the truth, I am really not sure; that tradition has been around for longer than I have), and accidentally left it in the kitchenette. Anyone could have come down and taken it. She's only had it for a few days, forgive her for not noticing it was gone. Tobi went in to have a snack, and Khloe, spurning the 'common restroom', used the mirror to redo her makeup. Both deny seeing it.

But I'm worried. You know how I said the ring looked familiar? It wasn't the ring itself, but the stone I recognized. The ring wasn't all that expensive, which, though I doubt anyone knows this, is unusual. It has one small gem on it, one that Tobi probably thought was a diamond. But it's not. It's a very rare gem called a serendibite, one that would usually sell for about €9,000. He probably got it for under €50, so the seller must not have known what it was either.

But that's not what's worrying me. Serendibite is very rare, usually found only in Sri Lanka, and coveted, especially by magic users. It's got lots of uses in magic.

Lots.

Now do you see why I'm worried?

* * *

><p><em>25<em>_th __March__, 1992_

Let me tell you a story.

Once there were three young men, princes of a land known, in that time, as Serendip. All were very clever, in a Sherlock Holmes-ish way. They were able to tell that a camel was blind in one eye, lame in one foot, and carrying a pregnant woman by looking at where it had stopped to rest. For their intelligence, they were awarded great riches (not that they really needed them, they were princes). It is from their story that the word serendipity comes, a word which basically means luck, happy accident, and good fortune all rolled into five practically unpronounceable syllables. Serendip also happens to be the old Persian name for Sri Lanka, where, as I'm sure I mentioned, the serendibite gemstone is found.

And yes, there was a point to this little monologue.

Some weird things have been happening around here lately, and I feel the serendibite is to blame. Even without the help of a magic-user, this stone is dangerous, and even doing a spell around it could set off a terrifying wave of bad luck. The things going on now are bad enough, but what if it was fully . . . well, you might say activated, for lack of a better word. Spilled coffee, constant tripping, missing pencils and lost papers - Helen almost broke something falling over some non-existent tuft in the carpet. I think everyone is worried about what will happen to the wedding if either of them were hurt.

Also, other things have gone missing, trinkets mostly, but how long before something important is gone? I can do nothing, say nothing, because although I have my suspicions, I don't actually _know_. And in this game, guessing wrong can be deadly.

Something is going to happen, something very bad.

On a lighter, more normal note, we fully installed a new computer system today, one that would allow us to better catalogue patients. Even with all this drama and mystery about, this is still a fully-functional hospital, one which I feel would _stay_functional and running well even in the event of a zombie apocalypse. We got a new director for our department a number of months ago, and he's done wonders for the system, and now we're running well, though I spent an entire afternoon teaching squinting techs how to use the thing. You'd think it was just in a tech's blood to automatically know how to use any sort of program set in front of him, but apparently that only works with video games. Even Helen was scratching her head in confusion.

* * *

><p><em>26<em>_th __March__, 1992_

And here I thought the situation could get no worse.

It just did.

I'm no stranger to death, never have been, not even when I was a child in Ealdor; people became ill all of the time, and let's not even talk about the bandits. The execution of Thomas Collins was not the first time I witnessed . . . call it what you will, justice or murder, but death.

Certainly doesn't mean I'm used to it, though. Absolutely not, even now.

Of course it had to be Aella. He just _had_to be the first victim, didn't he. And when I say first, I mean that I fear this isn't the end. There's probably more to come.

Khloe found him - I won't stoke your nightmares by telling you exactly what he looked like, but know that it was not pretty; Zoe almost had a fit of hysterics and had to lie down for a while. I'm not one hundred percent sure where Khloe went off to, poor girl, she doesn't work with the terminal patients or anything, she's not used to death. None of us are, really. The police came and questioned us very thoroughly afterwards, but I think everyone denied knowing anything. I'm pretty sure they're clueless. You see, Khloe found his body in the supply closet, stabbed through the heart in a most horrifying manner, and people are constantly going in there for pens or pencils, paper, batteries - it's rare to see it empty for long. Anyone could have done it, and everyone had the motive, it seems. Aella was not a popular character. But only people that would admit to have been in there were, of course, Khloe, Tobi, and Zoe-some might call them the prime suspects.

"Do you think," asked the detective, "that your friend Zoe might have done it, because he accused her? Or what about that young lady Helen? Perhaps she suspected _he _stole her ring."

Yep, they're confused. But then, so is everyone else, and I include myself in that category. I think I know how the murderer did it: simple voodoo magic, doll, pin, heart, and the police are baffled by the lack of a weapon. Works every time. Plus a transportation spell, or maybe it was a Notice-Me-Not on the body, so no one saw it before the killer had an alibi. Not that an alibi would matter in this case, it's shocking how easy it would be (for a magic-user) to get out of almost any situation.

What we have here is a magic-user (possibly) with a serendibite gem (maybe), and he might have killed the most unpleasant person in the hospital. And there's nothing for us to go on. All the same, I can feel the web closing around our killer, tighter, tighter, tighter . . .

* * *

><p><em>27<em>_th __March__, 1992_

Today has been a long day.

The day started off normally enough, but after lunch, no one seemed to want to work. Everyone was tense and on edge, and suspicion ran high. Khloe vanished into a bathroom stall five or six times, Zoe stared vacantly into space, Magan fiddled with his Rubix cube, and Berenice seemed to give up entirely and just leave. I was trying to concentrate on calculating the medical bill of a woman who is very ill because apparently she swallowed something, but kept on being distracted by that fact that this woman had been in Aella's ward. The new system works wonders, but I couldn't think about that, I was trying to solve a murder!

Thoughts swirled through my head with the speed of summer lightning, theory after theory brought to my attention and discarded; a couple thousand years can really hone your thinking pace, and boy did I need it. Mysteries are like puzzles - scary puzzles, the kind that you solve quickly or else. And the pieces just weren't fitting! Who would kill Aella? And where was the stone? If I was right, those two things were connected: perhaps Aella had found the person who actually did it and tried to blackmail them. If I dared setting off the stone with any kind of magic, I might try and sense who the magic user was, but the risk was too great.

What could it be? What could it be?

And then something caught my eye. _Oh __my__,_ I thought, _how __did __I __not __notice __that __before__? __Oh__, __that__'__s __perfect__. __That__ - __fits __perfectly__. __That__ - __that__'__s __really __very __bad__. __That__'__s __bad__._

A hand fell on my shoulder, and I turned, startled. It was Zoe, her face worried and pale under the natural Greek tan. She bent closer to me and said, "Myron, I know you know something. Please, can't you tell the police, set this whole affair to rest?"

I should have known that Zoe, at least, would guess my thoughts, she's known me too long for anything else.

I smiled at her. "Don't worry, Zoe," I said, "I will when I know what I'm doing."

She stepped away, not assured. Most people trust me too much, but not Zoe, no, she always knew exactly when to doubt what I said. But the clever girl didn't question me out loud, simply turned and slumped away, her eyes narrowed.

A flash of something in my head, the future, unasked, uncalled, but there-

Ah-ha! Just what I needed. A distraction. A long and convoluted distraction, to be sure, but I needed the killer off his guard.

I smiled. _Five__, __four__, __three__, __two__, __one__-_

_Action__._

Berenice came running back into the room, her face excited, and tripped over the door frame. Straightening, she called, "Come quickly! Come and see! Come on!"

Curious and glad for the distraction, the room emptied in minutes as the inhabitants scampered up the stairs. Berenice ushered them along, saying things like "It's on the street! Go and look!", and "It's amazing!"

I was one of the last to leave, but as soon as everyone had passed me I turned back, slipping as softly as I could down the hallway again, to peek around the doorframe.

Berenice hadn't left. She was hunched over Aella's desk, going through his drawers frantically. Her hands shook as she turned over papers and rifled through supplies.

"What are you looking for?"

She turned around, terrified and shocked. Her face went very pale when she saw me.

"Myron," she gasped, and she looked around, as if hoping someone would come out and save her. "Don't you want to see what's outside?"

"And what would that be, Berenice?" I questioned. "What kind of illusion did you conjure to empty this room? What do they see when they look in the sky, so that you can cover up your crime?"

Berenice shifted nervously, her breath quickening. "It was . . . a flock of flamingos. But Myron, you don't understand," she almost whispered. "I would never have killed Aella, why would I have? What would I have to gain?"

"The stone," I answered. "The serendibite gemstone, that's what you've wanted all along. Aella stole it from Helen, didn't he, after he realized what it was worth? And you saw it too, and your heart burned with the need. That stone could take away all your worries, all your cares . . . Serendibite, the lucky stone, it'd give you good fortune beyond anyone else's, you with the clumsy feet and awkward hands and horrible job. You thought no one liked you because you're so tongue-tied around, well, _everyone_. But he got there first."

Berenice looked like she was about to cry, her eyes glittering with tears. I'll admit I felt a stab of pity for her, but I continued.

"And guess what? You didn't need it. You have a brilliant mind, you're a wonderful technician, such a clever, clever girl. Everyone likes you, Berenice, everyone thinks your clumsiness and stuttering is just the cutest thing! You're such a wonderful girl."

She was shaking her head, gulping. "No, you've got it wrong," she gasped. "I didn't kill him. I don't know who did, but I just want the stone! I know I can get that spell right, have the power, please help me find it!"

There was a gasp from behind me, and I turned. There stood Zoe, her eyes wide and her face shocked. "Berenice, wha-?" She had obviously heard what was said.

The poor Berenice, stuck in a hole with no way out, trembled. "I didn't!" she cried, her face wet. "I didn't!"

Other people were coming, tiring of the flashy spectacle, and watching the scene with furrowed brows and open mouths. Whispers started. "She did it, she killed Aella" . . . "Someone call the police, cart this madwoman away!" . . . "What's happened?"

It was too much for her, she couldn't take it. With a cry of frustration and fear, she lashed out, and something very similar to a shockwave came hurtling out of her, pure magic, driven by her emotions. The worst kind. We were all thrown back, papers flew, chairs tipped over, desks rattled, computers sparked. I banged my head against Agnes' desk, and saw stars; I knew no more.

Heh. I just looked at the clock are realized what time it was: midnight. Oh, with a day like this, I need my sleep, so I'll finish tomorrow.

Good night.

* * *

><p><em>28<em>_th __March__, 1992_

Continuing with this fascinating story (lucky I don't work today. . .)

When I awoke, Khloe was shaking me. Most of the lights had gone, and alarms were ringing everywhere. Quiet murmurs resounded in the room. Through the windows, I could see that it was darker, cloudy and threatening. How long was I unconscious?

"What do we do now?" Khloe said softly. "Zoe's gone for the police, but I don't know how much help they'll be. Did you see what she did? She _vanished __into __mid__-__air__!_"

"Did she?" I muttered, trying to stand. "Fascinating." I hadn't actually seen it, but obviously Berenice hadn't tried to hide herself anymore, but had simply left as quickly as possible. This I had foreseen and planned for - now that she had run, it made her seem all the more guilty.

As I straightened, my head pounded like a drum, but after being thrown into so many walls, my poor skull has thickened considerably. No hit to my intelligence intended.

Dark images skittered across my brain, things that hadn't happened, and maybe never would. But they were enough to confirm any suspicions I had. I closed my eyes to the pain of them.

"Alright, everyone!" Alekto called over the chaos. "Just calm down, the police are coming, they'll sort this out."

Zoe came through the doorway, frowning. "I'm sorry, the phones are down. Even Alkyone's mobile phone isn't working."

Alekto's eyes rolled to the heavens. "Of all the time for the phones to stop working," she grumbled.

"It's on purpose," I said, speaking so everyone could hear. "Berenice must have done something, blocked the phone lines."

"But how?" Magan demanded, his smile lines turning into worried creases. "Do you have any idea how hard that is these days?"

"Either that or it's this storm," Zoe commented. "Maybe all the phone lines are down. You never know . . ."

I was trying to think, ignoring them. The pieces of the puzzle, however convoluted and confusing, were starting to fit together. My brain was rejecting the picture though; I wasn't liking what I saw. She had been such a dear girl - or so I had thought.

I had to act fast, so I spoke, before she got away. "Well, this is all very nice, but we've got to find Berenice. My theory is, she's still here, just hiding."

"But hiding where?"

"I've got a few ideas."

"And what would they be?" Helen said skeptically.

I moved over to one of the only working computers and starting pulling up the patient files. "She's looking for something. What? Helen's ring. Why? It's the only thing that makes sense, and it'd get a very good price from a private seller, since it's made of a very rare gemstone, known as a serendibite." Actually, that's what Aella had wanted it for, but they didn't need to know that. "Aella was the one that stole it from you, Helen, but Berenice killed him for it. Unfortunately for her, he'd already hidden it somewhere. Where? Here."

I pointed at the page on the screen, and they leaned in close.

Zoe read the file aloud. "_Amethea __Monimoes__, __age__ 36, __Doctor __Alkyone__, __Nurse __Mentor_- why, that's Aella! - _first __diagnosed __with __malignant __lung __cancer__, __but __recently __complained __of __pains __in __her __stomach__, __and __then __a __broken __leg_." She leaned back, confused. "I don't understand."

"It would have been easy to put the stone in her food when she was staying overnight one time. Don't you see? The serendibite is very sharp, that's the stomach pains. I've seen ever patient file since it was stolen, she's the only one with the right symptoms." No need to tell them that the broken leg was _also_a symptom, a symptom of bad luck. "All he had to do with wait for it to come _out_."

Khloe gulped. "That's disgusting," she said.

"But effective," Tobi breathed. "No one would think to look in a human!"

"Genius!" Zoe breathed, her eyes glittering. Then they darkened. "But that means . . . Berenice is clever, she'll check everywhere he's been, eventually she'll figure it out."

"Exactly," I replied. "That's why we must be quick." I turned to the little group. "Magan, Alekto, I need you to go and tell Dr. Alkyone what's happening, he likes you best. Khloe, you contact the police. Walk to the station if you must, but get them here. Zoe and I will go to Miss Monimoes and find the stone. Alright?" They all nodded.

"What do I do?" Miles asked.

"Yes, and me?" Helen demanded.

"Helen, you go with Khloe. And you, Miles, find the best jeweler you know and bring him here."

None of them questioned my orders, which just goes to show how much of a Not-A-Joke this was.

As we dispersed, I watched them for a moment, sighing. How easy it had been to lie, to make them leave me, when not all that long ago - it seemed to me - I had barely been able to stutter out an untruth.

"_No __change __there __then__."_

I almost smiled at the memory of my friend. But I had a killer to catch. No time for smiling.

Zoe was watching me, her eyebrows raised, but she simply followed when I walked towards the stairs.

"What is it Myron?" she asked softly. "Something's wrong."

I didn't answer for several seconds. "I know, but there's always something wrong, isn't there? At least with me." My head turned towards her and I smiled. "Don't worry, it'll all work out in the end."

Writing this now, I can almost forget where I am, that I'm writing this in such fictional prose just for you, O Friend to All Arachnids. This chapter of my story is almost done, but the one with you is yet to come. It will be a long time before my life is over completely, maybe not ever.

Painful thought, that.

Zoe and I were quiet as we walked through the hospital. The halls were mostly empty, usually only containing a few nurses and a doctor or two. Amethea Monimoes was on the third floor, and, as we entered her room, we saw she was asleep. I think.

Every muscle in Zoe's body tensed as the bathroom door opened and Berenice stepped out. She did not see us at first, too entranced by the jewel she held clamped in between her thumb and forefinger. When she looked up, it was too late.

"_Lyftgelác__!"_

The stone was snatched out of Berenice's grasp, as if by an invisible hand, and flew through the air. I had said the spell, of course, but again a twitch of something magic-ish, and it changed direction half-way there; it fell right into Zoe's waiting hand.

There was a tremendous flicker of power from the stone acting to the magic, and she hissed as her hand was burned slightly. But she didn't let go.

She smiled - no, she _smirked_. I sighed.

_Rats__. __Here __we __go__._

It's the curse of soothsaying, really. You're never surprised. If you had told me four days ago that Berenice had magic of any kind, I would have laughed like crazy. But then I would think about it. There were signs, of course. Clumsiness is one, especially if you don't use your magic often enough. Berenice was powerful enough, and careful enough, that she was a bumbling most of time, as am I occasionally, a fact which you have most likely witnessed. When I was younger, half of my clumsiness was real (actually, still is), a quarter of it was magic-repression induced, and the other quarter only made an appearance when I wanted to appear incredibly stupid.

Zoe had none of these problems. That's because I don't think she's actually a witch. Any magic she does is . . . not really magic, more like, I dunno, some sort of weird control. Weak, but hard to counter with actual, real magic. Different.

Berenice gaped at the pair of us. "What on - how - you-"

Any trace of Zoe seemed to fade in an instant. "Yes, me. Zoe Zoticos." Another cold smirk. I was reminded forcibly of Morgana. "But not really. Zoe was just an invention of mine, a clever one if I do say so myself. Which of you didn't believe in poor, naive, smiling Zoe?" She was right, of course. Apparently my judge of character really _was_ that bad. She turned to me. "Though I certainly wasn't expecting _you_to have magic, Myron."

I smiled frostily, rather distracted. "Most people don't, really. But that's not what's important right now, what's important is what you want the stone for." I was actually curious; that was something my vision hadn't answered. "Do you just want good luck like the rest of them?"

"No," Zoe - or whatever - replied. "I mean, yes, but no." Two pairs of eyebrows raised.

"Well, that clears up everything, I'm sure." Berenice muttered.

Zoe glared. "If you must know, my real name is Tykhe. I need this stone to regain my power. It has been fading for years now, but faster and faster every day. People have stopped believing in the old religions, and that diminishes our power."

"Our?" I asked.

"The gods," said Tykhe.

Berenice sputtered. "What are you _talking __about__?_ Gods? Are you mad, Zoe?"

"Of course not, I'm telling the truth. Back in the good old days, I was the goddess of luck. I controlled the wheel of fortune, pushing one man up and another down, spoiling day-old milk and keeping month-old bread. Everyone looked to me for their needs. I was revered, and feared."

At this point, she was becoming agitated, breathing heavily and scowling fiercely at everything. Her rage was becoming so palpable that I thought the temperature in the room was actually rising.

"But then you foolish mortals decided you knew better than us! 'Oh no, we don't need them,' you said, 'we can take care of ourselves!'" Tykhe snorted violently, and Amethea let out a soft sound of distress in her sleep. Thank heavens, she was still alive. "Idiots! You can't take of yourselves, look what's happening! This world is going to the dogs."

I certainly knew the feeling. I had watched as the Old Religion faded and died in the face of the New. Tykhe may not be the most relatable of all people, but I knew what she was getting at. "Still doesn't answer my question."

Tykhe whirled on me. "But don't you see? The serendibite is a lucky stone." Her hands clasped around the stone and her eyes closed, feeling the warmth of magic in it. "It's powerful, a power I can control. If I can get it to work, I'll have all my power back. People will have to believe. I was so excited to see that Tobi had gotten his hands on one. I didn't want to attract any attention by just stealing it, so I set about making a copy: you'll never believe how long that takes with my weakened powers. Unfortunately, that annoying Aella got there first, and started to accuse me! Oh, the nerve of him. I might have left him alone if he'd left me alone, but if there's one thing you must understand about us immortals, it's that we're vengeful! Thaumaturgy worked very nicely, just a little pin to the doll's heart . . . it was almost too easy.

"I couldn't find the ring, though I knew it was only a matter of time before it showed up. That much power in one place, there'd be signs. Imagine my dismay when I discovered _you__'__d_ gotten here had gotten there before me, Myron, and realized what was going on, deduced (wrongly, mind you) that you, Berenice, killed Aella and was after the stone, that you had discovered its location or would shortly. I had to stop you, and I must stop you now. So, sorry, but I'm afraid you're to be the first casualties in Tykhe's war against unbelief." Tykhe looked at us, speculating, and the expression was freakish and wrong when I knew I had seen Zoe - dear, sweet, kind Zoe - wearing the same face just a few days ago. "I think a nice disintegration spell will work, eh? No evidence for the police." She started to roll up her sleeves.

It was at this point that Berenice and I looked at each other and decided to team up despite our differences. Here was a potential destroyer of all free luck on Earth (probably a few cards short of a full deck, too) who was threatening our very persons; were we to stand for this? No! We, as warlock and witch, were obligated to defend our home and hearth from any and all threats that decided to dismantle our molecular structure.

I spoke, hoping Berenice would do something while I distracted her; I didn't think I could hurt someone with Zoe's face.

"No kind feelings for your mentor, Zoe? Not one doubt about striking down the man who taught you all about the hospital, who guided you through the first years of working, who loved you like a brother?" I stepped closer, trying to see. "Is there any human kindness in you? Any remainder of Zoe Zoticos left, or is it just the hateful goddess of luck?"

Tykhe glared at me, her lip curling. "Idiot, you may have magic, but I could crush you in an instant."

This I doubted, and I told her so. She stared incredulously. "Really? Alright then-"

She hit so hard and fast I barely had time to block, the rebounding curse (or whatever a 'divine' equivalent is) streaking back at her. She dodged, smiling. "You _are _good!" she cried, ecstatic and fascinated. "Who'd have thought?"

Berenice had taken as step forward and then back after the sudden attack, and now stood uncertainly by Amethea's bed. Again, our eyes met, and she gulped. She nodded: she was ready for this.

I pushed my speech out towards her, and our minds briefly touched. Not used to mental contact, she physically jerked backwards. Tykhe was talking, but I ignored her, trying to speak to Berenice.

_Don__'__t __be __afraid__, __Berenice__. __It__'__s __just __a __temporary __mental __link __so __I __can __speak __without __Z__-__Tykhe __hearing__._

_Er__-_

_It__'__s __alright__, __it__'__s __just __a __short __message__._

_Um__-_

Once upon a time, I had lived in Japan and had briefly worked with an industrialist there. She barely tolerated my magic, but we struck up a friendship of sorts; I knew things she didn't, and she knew things I didn't. Constantly we taught each other something, so when we were attacked by a huge forest god, she looked at me calmly, and told me something I would never forget.

I repeated it to Berenice now, almost word-for-word.

_Now __watch __closely__, __Berenice__. __I 'm __going __to __show __you __how __to __kill __a __goddess__, __a __goddess __of __fortune __and __fate__._

Tykhe stepped closer and raised her hands, challenging us to attack her. Berenice shifted and readied herself as well, still listening uneasily.

_The __trick __is __not __to __fear __her__. __Once __she __realizes __she __can__'__t __get __to __you__, __she__'__ll __resort __to __brute __force__, __and __we__'__ll __outmatch __her __in _that_._

A flurry of movement, and the fight was on, pushing at us. Tykhe's hand swept through the air as if she was gathering power in her hands and flinging it out again; even a weakened god is a powerful one. Snakes and whirlwinds, and spiders too - my mind jumped to you, friend, for a fraction of a second, then I had to defend myself against a raging rhino, and pick a fallen Berenice from the floor.

_Even __brute __force __won__'__t __win __against __an __immortal__ - __they__'__ll __just __pick __themselves __back __up __and __heal__. _Like me, but I didn't tell her that. _You__'__ve __got __to __beat __them __in __every __way__, __tear __them __down__. __A __god __runs __on __belief__, __on __the __faith __of __their __followers__, __but __in __the __end__, __it__'__s __their __own __faith __in __themselves __that __matters__. __That__'__s __what __keeps __them __going __when __they__'__re __at __the __very __end __of __their __rope__. __If __we __can __just __break __her __belief __in __herself__, __we__'__ll __have __her__. __We__'__ll __have __to __completely __frighten __her __with __our __own __power__._

_I__- _Berenice stared desperately at Tykhe's face, despair and hope warring, as she dodged and ensorcelled. _What __would __happen __to __her__?_

_I __think __she__'__d__ . . . __pass __on__, __in __a __way__. __Go __wherever __gods __go__._

_She__'__d __die__._

_Yes__._

_But__ . . . __it__'__s __Zoe__ . . ._

_I __know__._

It really wasn't Zoe, we both knew that. Zoe hadn't ever really existed. But here was someone with her form and face, and I would not stand for watching her destroy every memory of my desk mate that I had.

So far I had been holding back. No more. I wasn't named Emrys for nothing: Tykhe believed she had the upper hand here? Well, tough luck, sister; here I come.

I considered what I could do. Should I hit her with one spell fueled with enough power she was unlikely to block it? Or should it be a flurry of different spells that would leave her stumbling?

Or perhaps both?

_Hit __her __with __whatever __you __have__, __Berenice__, _I thought. Don't _hold __back__._

_Sure __thing__, __Myron__._

There was a moment of collection, re-calling hundreds of spells from our memories, remembering the incantations and optimal distance from the target.

We both took a few steps back.

I have not seen the like of this desperate duel since my last meeting with Morgana. Heh, good comparison, I know. But a bad one, too: though in many ways they were similar, they were not much alike either. The only thing really the same was how it ended, how Tykhe stepped back again and again, her glorious smile transforming into a fierce scowl, and then a worried clench of the jaw.

Don't ask me why, but that expression made me think of an old friend I once had, back when I lived in Mexico in the 1800s. His name had been Mateo, and we had been the best of buds, inseparable, joined by our love of magic.

And then he'd gotten jealous of my immortality, despite how many times I'd told him it wasn't worth the trouble. He'd turned against everything he had once loved then, and it had destroyed him.

_I_ had destroyed him.

A spell came through and scraped my bad leg (the one I broke falling out of a window fighting my uncle: isn't my life just wonderful?)

Just like Yasmin. Sweet, kind Yasmin, the mirror image of her son. She was the reason I left Wales and came to Greece in the first place, driven away by the stark memories of her, and the bitter angry words of her husband. I guess some things never change, hmm?

How many of my friends would have been better off without me? Sonja, David, Monsieur Jackson, Niniane-

No, don't think of Niniane. Just . . . don't.

But my point was, all of them, at one time or another, had been some sort of student of mine, including Zoe. Hadn't I taught her everything she needed to know about the computer systems, and hospitals, and working? Not all my apprentices had magic. What is it about me that makes everyone want to betray my trust? Do I look naive? Do I look powerless?

Don't answer that. Please.

But here was another push in the direction of total loneliness, another abandonment. And it hurt.

Tykhe was beaten, though, and we could both see it. Here was a woman who thought she was the most powerful of them all, lashed by two 'pathetic' humans. Myron and Berenice, who I was pretty sure must be at least as powerful as Morgause, standing over her, not doing anything, not saying anything. Despite our victory, we knew this was not a happy thing, certainly not. It was horrible.

Tykhe lifted her head, gulping. "Please . . ." she moaned. "Spare me."

I remembered Zoe, so I knelt down beside her and hugged her, trying to calm her broken spirit. It was doubtful she even remembered who she was; I was surprised she hadn't just faded away into nothingness, to join the rest of the gods. But she hadn't.

I looked at Berenice. She gasped for breath, looking mournfully at the trembling figure clutching to my shirt, hastily discarded tears still glittering on her fingertips.

"That was-"

She stopped. Neither of us said anything.

"What do we do with her?"

"To be perfectly honest, I hadn't thought about that part," I admitted. "I was sort of making this up as I went along, building on what I saw." A sigh escaped my lips. "We can't hand her over to the police, she's still potentially dangerous."

Berenice looked towards the window awkwardly. "And the police will want me anyway."

"Yes. Sorry 'bout that. I needed Zoe off her guard, and in a way I was right, hmm?"

A cruel thing to say, now that I think back on it. But I was tired; I rarely use that much magic at once, and Berenice didn't seem to hear anyway. She sat down in the visitors' chair, put her chin in her hand, and furrowed her brow. The only sound that broke the silence was Tykhe's soft sobs and Amethea's soft breathing. Was that woman seriously _still__asleep__? _Whole new definition of sleeps like a log, that's for sure. I couldn't help but wonder what was taking the police so long, not that I was complaining, but really . . .

Berenice raised her head, and I could practically see the light bulb. "I have an idea," she announced, her eyes bright. "And neither of you are going to like it."

I could alre-

Ah, phone. Be right back.

* * *

><p><em>17<em>_th __April__, 1992_

Sorry, can't write much now, but I must tell you this: you know how in books, there's about to be an enormous revelation, and the author cuts it off and tells you about it much later? That, m'dear, is called suspense, and I want you to pretend I am keeping you in suspense on purpose, because I really don't have the time to tell you now. After this blasted wedding, I'll have time!

What have I gotten myself into?

* * *

><p><em>May<em>_ 24__th__, 1992_

Are you going to kill me? Please don't, let me explain.

The phone call was from Helen, asking if I would supervise the decorations. Now, I didn't think the conversation would last for three hours, but you know how these things are: They just sort of happen. And then I had to go out a buy milk, then my dog got sick-

Yes. Anyway. I forgot to come back and finish what I was going to say. Very out of character, I know, but perhaps it was for the best; now I don't have to rush through any explanation.

The wedding was absolutely beautiful. Tobi had a plainer ring for Helen, no fancy stone and intricate weaving, but a simple gold band. After what happened with Berenice and Zoe, no one was surprised he had decided to try and avoid any future thievery. They had a mixed Greek and Western-style wedding, with the traditional ceremonies and crowning, reading from the Bible, drinking from the common cup, but they added the more Western tradition of saying vows they themselves had written. And, of course, there was me: in Greece, walking the bride down the aisle is usually the groom's job. At the end of the ceremony, the priest led them in their first steps as a married couple, and the little kids and siblings of the couple rushed forward to pelt them in rice. As we all tossed and laughed, Alekto sidled up to me.

"No news of Berenice and Zoe then?" she asked.

I shook my head, the smile falling. "No," I replied, "no word at all."

The woman did not question me any further, just shaking her head sadly and patting my arm, then walking away.

I almost allowed myself to smile. Almost.

After the ceremonial crowns had been removed, there were much tears, laughter, and hugging, so much, in fact, that the bride and groom were momentarily invisible in the crowd. I hung back for a moment, waiting for the press to die. I allowed myself to wonder what it would have been like if Berenice and Zoe had been there; but they would never return.

"I've been meaning to move to the country for quite some time," Berenice, standing by the window in the hospital room, had told me. "It would be no trouble for me to simply . . . disappear."

"What do you mean?" I asked, still cradling Tykhe.

The receptionist's eyes burned with the fervor of her idea. "It's brilliant, don't you see? I'm already wanted by the police (for something I didn't do, thank you very much), and Zoe is responsible but we can't hand her over. Oh, it's perfect!"

I thought I was beginning to see what she was trying to say, but I wanted to be sure. "Are you saying . . . that you'll take Zoe . . . and leave Greece . . . and go into hiding?"

Berenice grinned. "Yes!"

I was struck with both the absolute perfection and awfulness of the idea. On one hand, it was wonderful because Berenice could easily keep Tykhe - or Zoe, whoever she was now - in line, but on the other hand, Berenice would have to leave the only home she had ever known, dragging a psychopath behind her, and never again return.

"No, no, you can't."

"Oh yes I can."

"We can convince them that I was mistaken, and I'll keep an eye on Tykhe, keep her in line."

"We can't convince everyone, Myron, no matter how powerful. Even the strongest spells fail in presence of a stronger mind."

This was true, but still I pressed on. "Perhaps you don't fully understand what you'll have to do here, Berenice. Let me explain."

I would never have pegged Berenice as a persuasive woman. But argue she did, pushing her idea to the utmost.

The police appeared, the sirens wailing like so many fighting cats. Berenice laid a hand on my arm. She spoke two words, two words only.

"_Please_, Myron."

I'm not sure what finally convinced me; maybe it was the desperation of the moment, or her pleading voice, or the knowledge that perhaps this was the best thing to do. No reassuring visions came to me, no flash of insight, just what I had seen and knew already. Tykhe/Zoe, at least, could not remain here, and Berenice was offering her a way out. But I could not stifle the feeling that it should be me doing this.

"Are you sure?" I asked, uncertain to the point of absurdity.

Berenice smiled. "For sure," she replied, glancing again at the window. "I know I can do this."

Her hands pulled the unresisting goddess to her feet, and, reaching into the other woman's pocket, she tossed me the serendibite. "Here you go."

I don't actually remember the police showing up, due to the spell swift-thinking Berenice had performed, making me seem the victim there. There was no sign of the two women.

And here I am, almost two months later. For a while I was uncertain at my choice, but Berenice sent me a postcard last week, from (of all places) India.

"_Dear __Myron__, _(it said) _Zoe __and __I __are __having __a __blast __here__. __Our __resident __goddess __has __taken __a __liking __to __the __peafowls__. __They __won__'__t __let __her __near __them__, __but __she__'__s __wearing __down __their __resistance __I __think__. __Though __she __has __only __vague __memories __of __her __life __before __the __hospital__, __I __think __she __remembers __she __and __I __used __to __be __friends__, __and __so __does __not __object __to __following __me __around__. __What__'__s __going __on __with __you__? __Are __Helen __and __Tobi __finally __married__? *__sigh__* __I__'__m __sad __to __miss __it__, __but __I__'__m __sure __you__'__ll __send __me __a __picture __or __two__, __right__?_

_Love__, __Berenice __and __Zoe_

_PS __You __sly __dog__! __I __GAVE __you __that __gemstone__, __how__'__d __you __manage __to __slip __it __back __in __my __pocket__?"_

This may surprise you, but not having to vocalize spells have their perks, don't they, spider-friend? No, I have not forgotten you, and probably never will. I wonder where you are now . . . I'll just have to find you, eh? Perfect, but not now, Greece will hold me for a few more years yet. But then . . .

How does Ireland sound?

**"****When ****I ****despair****, ****I ****remember ****that ****all ****through ****history ****the ****way ****of ****truth ****and ****love ****have ****always ****won****. ****There ****have ****been ****tyrants****, ****and ****murderers****, ****and ****for ****a ****time ****they ****can ****seem ****invincible****, ****but ****in ****the ****end ****they ****always ****fall****. ****Think ****of ****it**** . . . ****always****."**

— **Mohandas ****Gandhi**

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><p>Hope you enjoyed that! Please review!<p> 


	10. GUITAR

AN: Double update today! Both the chapters are very short, so I figured why not? Hope you enjoy! In this chapter we get to see another familiar character;)

Changes: Just a little bit.

* * *

><p>Guitar<p>

**They ****Say ****Six****-****Strings ****Attract ****Girls**** . . . ?**

_1979_

"Like this?"

"No no no no no, like _this_."

"Er . . . I don't think my fingers can reach that."

"Your fingers, I'll have you know, are longer than mine, and I can reach it."

"You sure about that?"

"Mervin! Just do it already!"

"My my. Someone's bossy this morning."

If looks could kill . . .

"Fine."

_Strum__._

They both cringed.

"Okay, the A string is out of tune."

"I noticed." Carefully, she reached out and turned the peg just a little bit. "Try again."

_Strum__._

"Still a little flat, don't you think?"

"Definitely. Just a sec."

"_Sigh_. We've been tuning this thing for twenty minutes."

"Ten."

"_Twenty_. Isn't it time to move on to other things? Obviously it's broken."

"It isn't broken, you're just being stupid. Come on, just try it!"

_Strum__._

"There. It's fixed."

" . . . you sure?"

"Mervin. Shut up."

"That is unnerving . . . "

"What?"

"Nothing. Um, where do I start out again?"

She showed him. "Now stop stalling. I want some strumming, man!"

Carefully, he strummed. The sound wasn't perfect, nor was it exactly melodious, but it was certainly music. "Very nice," she complimented him (_Kind __Yasmin__, __charity __Yasmin__, _deaf _Yasmin_, he thought), "but it certainly could be better." (_I __take __it __back__._) "Now the next note."

Under Yasmin's sometimes insulting, sometimes laughing, but always loving (in a way that was almost, but not quite, uniquely her own) tutelage, Merlin, er, Mervin learned to play _Mary __Had __A __Little __Lamb_ on the guitar.

"So, I did it. Can I go now?"

"Nope!" she cried cheerfully. "Not till you can play _Stardust_ perfectly. I want you married, my friend! To be single is to be lonely!"

Mervin blanched. "Oh no, that's alright, Yasmin. Thank you for looking after my well-being, but really, I'm fine. There's no need-"

Yasmin turned to look at him closely. "You sure?" she asked. "All I can say is, you must be very lonely, all those years, living, watching everyone around you die."

Mervin stood and told her firmly, "Don't you worry your pretty little head, Yasmin. I'm lived fifteen hundred years without a wife, I can live a few more. Besides, I've got friends like you, how could I ever be lonely?" He wrapped an arm around her slim shoulders and squeezed affectionately. She snorted.

"Flatterer."

"At the very least, m'dear."

Guitar case in one hand and instrument in the other, he led her out of the room, and into the sun.

"**You****'****ve ****no ****right ****to ****walk ****into ****people****'****s ****castles ****and ****take ****their ****guitars****."**

— **Diana ****Wynne ****Jones**


	11. PAPER

AN: Last time everyone said this chapter was too confusing. All I can say is, that's kinda the point. Trying to explain what is going on in the chapter wasn't working very well, so I deliberately left it vague.

Changes: Not much.

* * *

><p>Paper<p>

**How ****To ****Make ****Your ****Superior****'****s ****Day ****In ****One ****Easy ****Step**

_1943_

The office was small and rather sparsely furnished. There was a desk, chair, and table, and all three were cluttered with papers and empty teacups. No pictures hung on the walls, but one lay knocked on its back on the desk: a man in uniform, standing proudly to attention, with an older man and woman, obviously his parents, on either side.

The door opened, and in came a small woman with orange hair. She looked around rather nervously and placed the papers she was holding in a precarious position on the desk. The woman hesitated, as if not sure what to do next, and then left. The door closed quietly.

Several minutes passed. The sunlight crept almost imperceptibly across the chair, casting slanting shadows on the floor. A spider began spinning a web in the light.

Footsteps neared and the door came open with an echoing _crash__!_ This could not be anyone but the owner of the office, for he matched the man in the picture. His face was harder and the uniform was a bit more scuffed, but still he wore it proudly. Behind him scuttled an anxious young man, perhaps a secretary of some sort.

When the officer saw even _more_ papers, he sighed and muttered, "You'd think I left my home and family to sign paperwork all day long . . ." But that was his only complaint. He tossed the clutter off the chair to the floor and sat.

The young man stood awkwardly in the doorway. "Um, sir?" he ventured when his superior said nothing. The nervous orange-haired woman appeared again, with yet another of the dreaded slips.

The officer jumped. "Eh? Oh, sorry, Egon. Erm, right, those papers you wanted, they should be . . ." He hadn't noticed the small woman yet.

There was an interval of several moments while the older man shuffled through pile after pile. Finally, he gave up.

"Well, I'm not sure, I thought they were _here_, or perhaps _here_, but apparently not. I'll have to look for them later."

The clock chimed the hour, and the officer nearly flew for the door. The small woman offered him the paper, and he fended it off like a wasp, begging, "It's my lunch break. Tell you what, Egon: you know what the papers look like, you search for them. I'll be back in a half-hour."

Egon smiled nervously. "Of course sir, I'll try and straighten up as well." But the officer was already gone. Before she left, the orange-haired woman gave Egon a rather significant look and closed the door pointedly.

Egon stepped up to the table and started to go through each paper one at a time. It would seem to a casual observer that the papers he wanted were mixed in quite well with the jumble, because he selected all kinds of papers, seemingly at random. Carefully, he went through every paper in the room (quite a time-consuming process, I assure you), and tucked what must have been at least forty of them under his arm. Before he left, he did something rather odd. He rearranged all the papers on the desk so it rather looked like there had been a stack of papers removed fairly recently. Nodding his head in satisfaction, he left.

Barely five minutes passed before the officer returned. Obviously, the half-hour was gone. Sighing, he sat down at his desk and looked glumly at the mess before him. No one was there to witness his quiet despair, and the sulking only lasted for less than a minute anyway, so no harm was done. The officer started scanning the papers before him, obviously looking for something. After a few moments of searching fruitlessly for the object of his desire, the officer scowled furiously and called, "Hedda!"

In came scampering the little woman. "Yes, sir?" she whispered.

"Where is the list I was looking at earlier?" he asked impatiently.

Hedda blinked. "Erm, on your desk?"

"But it's not."

The poor woman seemed to be quelling strong inner emotions, but she spoke in a stronger voice. "Then I'm sure I don't know where it is, sir. Perhaps you should ask Mr. Egon, or maybe Miss Lazar. The four of us are the only ones I can think of that have been in here."

The officer's brow furrowed. One could almost imagine that he was thinking something along the lines of _And __I __thought __my __day __was __going __badly _before _lunch__ . . . _"Get them. That paper was vitally important, I need it found."

Hedda nodded and exited the room. She returned some minutes later with Egon and a young brunette, presumably Miss Lazar. Both of them smiled rather pleasantly, but there were little secrets hidden in the corners of those mouths, shown by the almost smirking quirks and the little darting glances they threw each other. Hedda looked a bit annoyed, which everyone ignored.

The officer shortly explained the situation, eyeing the two. "Any idea what happened?"

Miss Lazar's eyes had gone very wide, but she shook her head mutely. Egon looked confused. "I haven't any idea, sir," he said.

Hedda obviously couldn't take it anymore. Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared. "Liars!" she cried, and the other three jumped in surprise. She pointed a finger into Egon's face. "You and that woman are spies! You're working together to bring us down from the inside. I saw all those papers you had, what would have stopped you from sneaking the list out that way?" She turned to the officer. "Don't you see, sir? They're English spies!"

The officer looked extremely skeptical and looked to Egon for an answer. The young man had bristled during Hedda's speech.

"I am _not_ a spy!" he insisted. "I suppose the paper may have accidentally gotten mixed in with my papers, but I certainly didn't put it there. You want to see them, sir? I'll get them. They're just on my desk."

Hedda followed him suspiciously, and they left the officer's sight for almost two minutes.

Miss Lazar had remained mostly expressionless during the whole accusation, seemingly not ruffled by being called a spy. The officer shot her a look, obviously irritated by her calm, before relaxing at Egon and Hedda's reentry. Wordlessly, Egon handed his superior the papers.

Huh, funny that . . . his eyes almost looked gold right there. But they were blue, so it must have been the sun.

For a moment the silence was oppressive as the officer sorted through each and every paper. Finally, he sighed, almost in relief. "These are in order," he said firmly. "Egon, you're cleared. Mostly." There was a little warning look to go along with the last word. "Hedda, Miss Lazar, I'm still going to have to check you two. But first, I want some coffee. Hedda."

This last word was a command. Grumbling and glaring, albeit quietly, the orange-haired woman stalked away.

The officer leaned back. "I'll have to say, Egon, I'm glad you didn't turn out to be a spy. You may have your faults, of course, but all in all, I think you're a good secretary."

Miss Lazar stepped forward and coughed politely. The little quirk was back and the officer raised an eyebrow at it. "I thought I should inform you, sir," she said quietly, restraining obvious amusement. "There're some more papers waiting for you."

The officer groaned. "Fine, bring it in," he muttered. The young lady left, but not before she turned her back to the officer and winked covertly at Egon. His mouth twitched.

For a moment, nothing was said as the two men listened to her footfalls fading away.

"What happened to the real papers?" the officer spoke softly, with no preamble.

"Safe," Egon replied, picking up the pile the older man had just inspected. "I'm sending them by L to M very soon." He glanced towards the door then leaned in closer. "You did very well. I almost believed your act myself."

The officer shrugged modestly, but he looked pleased. "How could I be anything but? I learned from the best."

Egon turned away, smiling. "As you say," he replied cheekily.

Before he reached the door, the officer interrupted him. "By the way, Egon. I was just wondering . . . is there something between you and Miss Lazar?"

For a moment Egon stared at him like he'd gone slightly mad. Then he snickered, which turned into a full-blown laugh, the kind that can't be easily staunched. Down the corridor he went, laughing like he would never stop.

"**Berlin****. ****What ****a ****garrison ****of ****spies****!"**

**-****John ****Carre**

* * *

><p>Hopefully that wasn't <em>too<em> confusing. Explaining things is not my strong point.

Until next time! (I'm really excited for next chapter; it's one of my favorites;) Please review!


	12. DANGERS

AN: Hello! Welcome to one of my favorite chapters on this fic! Why do I like it? It's basically just awesome. ;) Enjoy!

(Oh, and just FYI: this chapter is told from the POV of Merlin's cousin, Niniane, who was introduced in Beginnings.)

Changes: Just editing.

* * *

><p>Dangers<p>

**Why ****You ****Shouldn****'****t ****Get ****Merlin ****Angry****. **_**EVER**__**.**_

_Arthur__'__s __Time_

Perhaps I should feel a perverse pleasure in retelling your experiences, and draw them out as long as is possible, but I don't, and I won't; a succinct version will have to appease even the most curious reader. Suffice to say, the first time it happened, you were seven years old and living in your father's castle in Avalon. Being the daughter of the king of the Unseelie Court has its advantages, but you didn't feel them at such an early age; this was before you let the knowledge of your royalty get to your head. Your only joy at that time was leaving the confines of the courtyard and venturing out into the unknown with your older brother, Gaheris, sometimes exploring the surrounding woods (without fear - no creature would dared have attacked any child of Camlach's), sometimes watching the common people, and sometimes going over to visit your Uncle Ambrosius.

This last pastime was your favorite, I believe, since it was done at such frequent intervals as a child. There, in the lands of the Seelie Court, was love and peace. No goblins to grovel annoyingly, no Sidhe like overgrown mosquitoes, and no Father to glare disapprovingly. Usually you, Gary, and your two older cousins would frolic in the meadows under the watchful and smiling eye of your aunt and/or uncle, occasionally joined by a nursemaid or two.

But once, in the year that I mentioned before, there was an extra reason to scamper over to your uncle's castle: your Aunt Hunith and cousin Merlin were coming to visit. This had not happened in years! So, after grudging permission was given, scamper over you did, and meet your aunt and cousin for the first time since you were about three months old. They were exactly as you imagined, and more. Many hours were spent laughing in the castle.

This next part is not the most pleasant, and so less ink will be used in its telling. Sundown came, and alone and unafraid the two of you set off into the growing darkness. As I believe I've mentioned, Camlach is so feared in Avalon even the notion of you and your brother being attacked would have been ludicrous . . . unless the creature attacking didn't know you were the daughter of Camlach, or didn't know who Camlach was. It so turns out that wyverns don't know either of these things, though whether this was because they had come from the World of Men or the fact their species is (as generally thought) dangerously stupid, is not known.

Merlin saw it coming, and, like a good older cousin, ran to save the two of you. He barely made it; your best dress was torn, and there your father found the three of you.

"It's too dark to return to the castle, Merlin," he said, and were you imagining that dark glint in his blue eyes? "You must rest the night at the Unseelie Court."

Merlin tried to protest, but he was a twelve-year-old peasant boy against a twenty-nine-year-old eloquent king: there can be no doubt as to who won _that _argument. The return was cold and silent; there was no dinner.

It went from bad to worse. Gary's feelings of unease were so great he came to you in the middle of the night with news: Merlin's room was empty.

"Could he have simply left?" you asked.

"And risked making Father even angrier?" Gary replied incredulously. "I hope he has more sense - and self-preservation - than _that_. No, something's happened. Can't you feel it?"

That you could, and it drew you down and away from any light and goodness, down to your father's private study, a subterranean dungeon neither of you have entered for fear of Camlach's wrath. There you found Merlin, and your father. There the seed was planted, winding for years and years into your mind, a whisper at the edge of your consciousness.

"If only you weren't so self-righteous," your father spat in rage, leaning in close to examine Merlin's lean face. "Then you would make a better king than my sniveling son! And don't even get me started on Niniane-" Here he stopped and covered his face in despair. You and your brother looked at each other, not really surprised but hurt all the same. Deep inside you, invisible hands dug and planted the seed of doubt, the seed that would whisper forevermore: _He__'__s __better __than __you__ . . . _"Your powers are beyond anything we fairies are capable of," the king your father continued. "In no time at all, you would be able to wrest control of the whole of Avalon, Albion, the entire human world! Resources would be at your fingertips, everyone would bow to you (whether they wanted to or not), country after country would fall to your might. And yet, here you sit, subject to a weak human king in Escetia, farming with illiterate idiots, and hiding from a vengeful king!"

He seemed lost for words. Merlin was staring at him like he had never seen anything quite like him, as if he was a hideous vegetable just pulled out of the earth and still covered in dirt.

"I-" your cousin said. "I-why would I want that? My mother loves me, and she's taught me that's wrong, that to abuse my power is the worst I could do. I wouldn't like it if Cendred became a tyrant, and I think others would like it even less if I did what you say. Don't you realize it's _wrong_?"

"What's wrong to some people may be right to others."

"Well, here's what I say to those people: you don't like the rules society has? Pack up and move somewhere else, and you can follow your wrinkled heart there. Just don't bother us, and we won't bother you."

Merlin's mouth thinned to string, and his jaw was tight. He was angry, you realized, really angry, and if what your father says is true, that could be dangerous for everyone. Your father hadn't noticed the two of you, but you wanted to leap out and shout a warning:_ "__Don__'__t __say __anything __more__, __Father__! __Please__, __don__'__t__!"_

Obviously you're not a psychic, because your mental warning goes unheeded. What your father said next doesn't make a whole lot of sense to you, because though the whisper combined with your nature have yet to take full affect, you are still Niniane, and you don't know why threatening Aunt Hunith would do Camlach any good. Gary groans.

Merlin's eyes flashed, and he was on his feet in an instance. Twelve-years-old, tall for his age, but also small in the way still-growing boys are, bones sticking out of every tear in his clothes like there wasn't enough skin to cover him all, and he still looked frightening. Darkness crossed his face, and gold glittered in his eyes, like fireflies reflected in a pond.

"How dare you," he said, and his voice trembles. "How dare you."

Camlach had no sense of self preservation. "I'm the king, boy. I can dare whatever I like."

Your cousin raised an eyebrow coldly. "I'll let you think about the validity of that sentence for a few years. I'm going to leave, and I'd better not have to see you again, Uncle."

"Is that a threat?"

"Take it how you like, I really couldn't care less." Even not really knowing your cousin, you saw he was running on fury and adrenaline: this wasn't usually how he acted. "Just . . . stay out of the human world, Uncle, because if you bother us, I'll make sure you regret it."

Your father smiled in a sinister matter, as if very pleased by this command. "I'll look forward to it," he says, watching as Merlin walked to the door and left, then followed him. Neither noticed the two of you crouching behind the shelves.

You looked at Gary, eyes wide, not quite comprehending what had just come to pass. Most of it had passed over your head, but this much you knew: your life would never be the same again.

I needn't write much of the next few years. You grew, your father set out of conquer all, and he died at the unwitting hands of Merlin. You became almost an apprentice to your cousin, and somewhere along the way he gained the gift of immortality (he doesn't think of it as much of a gift, though). The whisper stills.

For now.

* * *

><p>"She's been poisoned?"<p>

"I'm afraid so."

"How?"

"I'm not sure yet, sire. My primary concern is for her immediate health."

"Yes, yes of course."

"I think you should go and stop any political turmoil that may be brewing in the dining hall, sire. Stop this war before it starts. I will send Niniane if her condition changes."

"I-"

"Arthur, please. You know I will do everything in my power to save Gwen's life."

" . . . I know. Remember, if there's but the slightest change-"

_Slam_!

"Merlin?"

"Who would do this, Gaius? Who would hurt Gwen?"

"Do you even need to ask?"

" . . . "

"Control yourself, Merlin. Getting angry will help no one, least of all Gwen. But you can help her."

"Yes? A plant I can fetch? A spell I can say? A poisoner I can-"

"Merlin!"

"Sorry. Just . . . a little on edge here. What can I do?"

"Take this. Since her goblet has gone missing, I have no way of knowing what poison he used, and therefore I can't make an antidote. _This_should enable you to track the poisoner. Probably. But right now it's the best I can do, I must keep her fever down. Can you do this for me?"

"Of course I can, Gaius. I'm assuming you want him alive? . . . Alright, alright, don't look at me like that, I just wondered!"

"Be careful."

"I will be."

"Gaius? Will he be alright?"

"What? Oh, I'm sure he will be, Niniane; his friend is ill, that's all. That would hurt anyone, make anyone angry. But I'm afraid . . . "

"Why?"

"Merlin's very powerful, you know, and I've seen what he can do in anger. Oh well, there's not much I can do. He's learning to control himself, at least, and that's all I can really expect."

* * *

><p>Though the much-beloved Queen Guinevere was soon on her feet, the war happened anyway. It was a long one, hard and bitter. Merlin stood on the King's right hand throughout it all, defending and attacking with the best of them, but neither of them would let you fight with them. "Please, Niniane," Merlin would plead, "stay here and protect Gwen." You were never able to defend against those eyes, so much like your father's; Camlach had never been really kind, but he had raised you and cared for you, and you were like him in more ways than you wanted to admit.<p>

Too much like him, it would seem, because you soon tired of standing on the sidelines with the queen, performing your (no point in denying it) mediocre healing spells on the seemingly endless lines of wounded, and waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting for something to change.

You almost didn't complain to Merlin, but were later glad you did: he recruited you for a secret mission.

"Has Arthur agreed to this?" you asked as he led the way through darkened woods.

"Er, not exactly," he replied awkwardly. "I sort of, um, left him a note."

This almost gave you a heart attack. "So, no back up?" you asked, struggling for calm.

"You're my back up."

"I see. Do you even have a _plan_?"

"Of course I have a plan!" Merlin snapped, giving you the evil eye (out of those blue eyes he got from his grandfather, the ones your father had too . . . but you try not to think about that).

After much bickering, tripping, trembling of bushes, and reorienting, the two of you finally reached the enemy camp. "So tell me this plan of yours."

Never looking away from the shifting shadows beyond the tents, Merlin whispered, "I thought I could try and make him see sense."

"Make King Lot see sense?" You snorted. "Good luck."

"Even he'll have to realize he's being foolish when he sees Arthur also has magic on his side. I _know_that man cannot be stupid, he must realize this war could go on forever, and destroy everything. So if I could just talk to him-"

You're not sure if this is a good plan or not, but then again, you've never met Lot. How on Earth he didn't already know of Merlin's powers was beyond you, but experience had taught you that your cousin was right a lot of the time. "Alright then, let's go!" You made to sneak forward.

Merlin grabbed your arm. "Oh no. You're staying here, I need someone to be a lookout, and besides, if you did come in, I just know you'd end up transforming him into a ferret . . . "

You didn't even bother arguing: he's absolutely right. So you watched with hawk eyes as he rather nonchalantly walked right into the king's tent. You remember someone, probably Camlach's chief spy, saying that if you look and act like you belong somewhere, people watching will be more likely to believe it as well.

Soldiers and knights of King Lot's realm entered and exited tents, laughing, resting, tending wounds, and eating. Always eating. You thought that Camelot might profit from conquering the kingdom of Lothian - at least you would never go hungry again.

What felt like an hour passed, and you grew bored. You started to look fondly at the fires, and even at the men surrounding them. Trust Merlin to leave you sitting in the cold, waiting for him, again. But then again, why would he want you to join him? You're the weak link here, the loose cannon, the one with the untameable temper, the girl who is too much like her psycho father to really be of any use to anyone. Why did Merlin even take you on as his apprentice? It's not like you're really that good anyway, like all fairies your magic is weak compared to a human's. Fairy magic is not meant for creating fire and divining the future, it's meant for paltry tricks and illusions, stealing a human baby, dazzling the eyes of a chasing knight. With these down-trodden thoughts, your heart grew depressed and heavy. _Pity_, you thought,_that__'__s __why __he __did __it__. __He __pities __me__. __Gaheris __got __a __kingdom__, __and __what __did __I __get__? __My __father__'__s __personality__. __Whoop__-__de__-__do__._

There was a sudden commotion from the camp, as the Lothian soldiers jumped to their feet and drew their swords. Merlin had exited Lot's tent, and in his hand he clutched a struggling-

Rabbit?

You blinked a couple times, just to make sure it wasn't some figment of your imagination. But, sure enough, the rabbit stayed the same, dark-furred, nasty-eyed, and screaming bloody murder in the incomprehensible rabbit tongue. Merlin clutched its back legs, and the look on his face - you swallowed, then muttered to yourself, "I think Merlin should have been more worried about losing his own temper. Or was that the plan this whole time?"

Merlin stepped forward and held the animal high. "Soldiers of Lothian!" he called out. "You have been tricked! You came here thinking you were taking back the rightful lands of your king, but in truth he has been greedy. In folly he married the witch Morgause and made her his queen. She thought to lure him into taking Camelot for her half-sister to rule, when in reality Morgana is not the rightful heir to the throne. I have seen how Morgana rules, and trust me-" here he stopped for a moment to regain some composure, ducking his head down for a moment, "-trust me, you do not want anyone of her sort on the throne. You don't believe me? Ask your king!"

Merlin seemed to control an instinct to toss the rabbit-king from him, and instead thrust it into the hands of a servant. "Take him back to his wife, and there he may regain his true form. I will not that I should ever see his face again. And when you see Morgause and Morgana, tell them this: Emrys is watching. _Always_. Camelot is defended, and they had better believe it."

And then Merlin turned, and walked away.

* * *

><p>A few years later, Gaheris visited, toting Vivian. Ever since the princess had found out about her magical powers, she had been hiding out in Avalon with your brother, helping him subdue the rebellious Unseelie Court, and generally inserting herself into the infrastructure of the kingdom.<p>

And (though you, personally, were loathe to admit it), your brother's heart. Never had you seen him so smitten by anyone, and to see that the feeling was returned by the golden-haired beauty - it was rather beyond belief. When you mentioned this to Merlin, he smiled his little secret smile, put his arm around your shoulders, and proceeded to tell you a tale that included a love spell, Arthur, and several kisses.

"Oh," was all you could think of to say.

But Gaheris' coming was a boon; King Lot was again gathering his army, but this time there was no pretence in hiding Morgause's hand in the proceedings, as she ruled the kingdom in her husband's absence. Morgana, it seemed rode at her brother-in-law's side.

Carefully, using the skills of strategy that you hadn't even known he possessed, Arthur stepped up to everyone's expectations of him and drove the war off like it was a mangy dog. There were no secret missions that time, and you were bored again. How annoying was the ease with which boredom would come to you! At the most inopportune moments you would feel a yawn coming on, usually at time when absolute silence was desirable, or your attention would swing off in the general direction of Mars, without your consent or happiness. Inactivity was your bane. When you went to find Merlin and whine about it (admit it, that was your basic plan), he and Arthur were in the king's study, talking.

May I just say right now that everyone who eavesdrops runs the risk of hearing things they don't wish to hear?

Let us continue.

"I'm not sure what else to do," Arthur had said softly, and you could imagine him running a hand over his face as he slumped a bit in his chair. He was completely at ease showing his emotions in front of Merlin. "This war could go on for years. You, turning Lot into a rabbit . . ."

"He deserved it. But you're right, it was rash, and I'm sorry."

"Don't be stupid, I was about to say it's just making Lot angrier, and when he's angry, he doesn't act well. You've seen it."

They both chortled slightly at some shared memory. Jealousy at their camaraderie made you pout.

It was like Arthur had known you were there. "How about Niniane? Is she holding up well?"

Merlin hesitated. "She's . . . being Niniane. As usual."

The king almost groaned. "Of course she is. Guinevere tells me she's been acting strangely."

"She's bored, Arthur. I really don't know what to do about it. With this war, I can't stay here and entertain her, and she _knows_she can't go with us; she's erratic and untrained, it'd be dangerous."

"You have to tell her that then, or she'll just-"

You didn't hear any more as you slunk away resentfully. Was it your fault you couldn't seem to stay interested in your duties? No! It was your stupid temperament that wouldn't focus on anything else.

Vivian was in Merlin's study when finally you returned to it. She stood in a ray of sunshine, and for a moment you thought her hair was indistinguishable from it, so brightly did it glow. The princess raised her eyebrows at you, and you glared.

"Something the matter?" she inquired, her high, clear voice shattering the near silence. "You look like someone rained on your parade."

"Ha!" you sneered, knowing you were being childish, but not really caring. "Thundershowers, Your Highness, thundershowers. Merlin had deceived me into believing he trusted me, but no more. Now I know what he thinks of me. I'm just his crazy cousin . . . "

Vivian almost laughed. "I know exactly how you feel," she told you, and you raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "You'll of course remember that I was the most spoiled and selfish princess in the Five Kingdoms? Well, who knows how much has changed inside of me, but I certainly feel different. And yet . . . people here tread lightly around me. They remember what I was. Even Gaheris, for all his kindness, gets a little leery when I'm in one of my moods. So yes, I know how it feels to have the shadow of your past self looming over you." She stepped closer and put a comforting hand on your shoulder. "Don't worry yourself too much, Niniane, you're making fine progress. And remember, if you ever need to talk, I live just through the Lake."

* * *

><p>I certainly don't want anyone reading my history of your progress - or regress, depending on the viewpoint - to think that all Merlin did was lose his temper. Heavens no, this was not the case. In fact, his outbursts had years in between them, and most of the time, his cheery disposition and optimistic outlook overshadowed any homicidal tendencies. In fact, almost everyone, yourself included, ignored his dark side and focused on the good. Bards sang of his power and magnanimousness, ladies swooned and fluttered their eyelashes like horses with eye diseases, and everyone treated him with profound respect.<p>

Well, except for Arthur (some things never change; to him, Merlin would always be an idiot), the knights (brothers, the lot of them), Gwen (respect, yes. Profound, no), and, of course, you. Merlin was your cousin, and therefore did not need your respect, or something similar. The only person you had ever shown respect to was your father, and everyone knew Niniane never changed. Despite this, you and Merlin grew closer as the years passed. Then about ten years after you set foot in Camelot, something happened that sealed Merlin's fate forever. I will tell it briefly, for it concerns our tale.

Your memories are a little faulty due to how fast everything happened, but you remember a strange creature, like a falcon with golden feathers and steel talons, ravaging the citadel, and helping to bring it down with a net.

The beast would not be defeated to so easily: it flung Arthur so hard that Merlin cried out in fear, and snapped the net trying to free itself. Then a young man sprinted out of the crowd and took up the net, helping to hold it. It was a magical holding, and you could feel his power. It annoyed you - who was he to butt in like that? - but he served a good purpose in somehow managing to restrain the bird's claws so that Gwaine could get close enough to land a hit.

Afterwards, Merlin approached the young man and thanked him. Excited, the man (no, boy, you decided) smiled widely and almost gushed, "It's not a problem at all sir, I'm glad I could help. My name's Balin, by the way."

You despised him from the very start. He was quite shy, especially around Merlin, his 'hero', but he worked hard and listened well to anything you ranted about. And then there were his dark eyes and hair, and . . .

_Ahem_. Moving on.

Your 'slight' infatuation with Balin would end very badly: two weeks after the incident with the falcon, Merlin announced he was taking the man on as an apprentice.

You spilled your soup. "Excuse me?"

Merlin bit his lip, but repeated, "I'm taking Balin as my apprentice. I've asked, and he's accepted."

You couldn't have been more shocked if Merlin announced he would burning all his neckerchiefs. "But . . . _what __about __me__?_ I'M your apprentice!"

He has the audacity to look unsurprised, which I suppose he probably was, and he answered you simply. "Niniane, you're twenty-seven years old. You don't need me anymore."

* * *

><p>You left that night. You knew that you were being silly and childish, running away like this, but Merlin's declaration of your independence had left you reeling. You didn't need him anymore? Yeah right! If anything, you felt like you needed him more than ever, needed him to protect you from the darkness that tried to overwhelm you. Your previous nature leered in from the shadows of your mind, breaking out in a rash of selfishness and hate, and you feared it. You did not feel like you had the strength to hold it back. You needed Merlin's light, you needed <em>someone<em>_'__s_light, to fend it off.

But what you really needed now was someone to talk to. Preferably not Merlin.

Your trip to the Lake of Avalon seemed shorter than usual, probably your distracted thoughts. Carefully, you spoke the spell that opened the walkway into your home, and stepped into the water. Holding your breath, you struggled slightly towards the growing light ahead.

A pale hand grasped yours, and you looked to the side and saw Freya's dark hair and sad eyes. She pulled you to the doorway but didn't let go until you looked at her again. Her mouth moved; you couldn't hear the words through the water. You thought she might have said, "Choose wisely," but of course you couldn't be sure.

You really hated cryptic warnings.

Avalon shone with an unnatural light after the greyness of the Mortal World. Sharp-eyed falcons watched from their perches, exotically colored snakes slithered through the undergrowth, and although it had been night when you left, the sun glittered brightly, hurting your eyes.

Your brother had taken up residence in your uncle Ambrosious's castle, you supposed because it looked cheerier, and there weren't as many painful memories attached. You went around to the back door, and a servant answered. Even after you told him it was the King's sister, he was understandably suspicious, but a visit to the head steward soon set him at rights.

"The King, your brother, is not in the castle at present, Your Highness," the steward (who had served your uncle for many years before his untimely death) told you. "Would you wait?"

"I'm not here to see Gaheris," you replied. "I want to see Princess Vivian."

The golden-haired princess was in a sunlit sitting room, already entertaining another guest. To your surprise, it was the late sorceress, Nimueh. The wide-eyed witch raised a perfect dark eyebrow at your approach. You hadn't seen her since before you were Merlin's apprentice, at the battle where your father died, and weren't sure you were happy to see her now. Though she and Merlin had made an uneasy peace during the conflict because of their mutual interest in defeating Camlach, everyone knew Nimueh was just as cold-hearted as when she had died.

Vivian looked uncomfortable; she was gazing out of the window with her brow furrowed, and seemed rather relieved to see you, a sure sign that whatever Nimueh had to say, Vivian didn't want to hear it. Seeing the princess's distress, you weren't sure you wanted to burden her with your troubles, but Vivian insisted on hearing them.

When you were done, Nimueh spoke. "You see Vivian? This is exactly what I was saying. Merlin's taking over everything. He has the Druids' loyalty, Arthur's ear, Gaheris's trust, and now he's slighted Niniane. He needs to be stopped. What other evidence do you need?"

Vivian frowned. "He's done so much good, Nimueh . . ."

The sorceress snorted. "Yes, because it's profited him! Tell her, Niniane: has anything Merlin done harmed him?"

You hesitated. It was true that most of your cousin's actions benefited him in some way, but he seemed to do it with such goodwill and kindness. This you voiced, and Nimueh's mouth twisted.

"He's been known to do things that helped only him. Like killing me. If Uther had died, magic might have returned that much sooner! And what did he do? Strike me down in anger! How did that help anyone else, I ask you?"

Vivian shifted nervously. "Gaheris knows Merlin much better than I do, and-"

Nimueh leaned forward, her blue eyes shining, looking almost mad. "But you know him better than anyone, don't you Niniane? For ten years you've stood by his side. What do you think?"

It occurred to you, before you started speaking even, that any other day and you would have defended him. But the hurt and anger, however ridiculous they were (don't even bother to deny this fact), remained fresh in your mind.

"It's true," you admitted, at first carefully, but becoming increasingly angry, "that Merlin has his faults, and sometimes I wonder whether he's the best person to follow, especially recently. Did you hear what happened with him and Lot? What a temper that man has!" (I wonder what the answer would have been if someone had asked which man you meant.) "I don't know why I've stayed with him all these years, I should have known he'd cast me off eventually."

Vivian bit her lip. "But hasn't he been kind to you?"

Nimueh snorted. "Only because it was convenient, of course. Niniane was useful to him. As Camlach's daughter, she could gain control over all sorts of magical creatures."

_I __can__?_ you thought.

"Besides, he didn't want her to . . . "

The two of you eyed Nimueh, who had trailed off in a tantalizing manner. "Didn't want me to what?" you demanded impatiently.

" . . . didn't want you to join his enemies," the witch finished.

For a moment, no one said anything, then Nimueh went on casually.

"I actually saw Morgana a few days ago, quite by accident, of course. She mentioned that a few of her followers had been killed in the war, and that, should I or any of my friends wish to join her, she would not turn us away."

Vivian shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "You're talking treason, Nimueh," she muttered. "Join Morgana and her army?"

"Oh give me a break! Treason? Not likely. Only Niniane is technically a citizen of Avalon, and she's a princess, she can do what she likes. You, Vivian, are a guest. I'm an . . . inmate, perhaps. It would not be treason for us to do what we liked." She leaned forward, her eyes glinting. "Just think about it, girls. Vivian, what have these people ever done for you? You've been slaving away all these years, struggling at the side of a man who won't even admit to your face that he loves you, fixing _his_problems with the Unseelie Court! You've been in that land more than he has! And you, Niniane! Merlin doesn't appreciate you, doesn't see what you could become. He's shunted you to the side like a used shirt, and he expects you to just take it? You're both princesses, ladies, you deserve better than this!"

Sighing in exasperation, Vivian snapped. "Alright! Suppose we do join Morgana! How could we help her? Huh? What have we got that she doesn't already have?" Her voice had turned shrill.

The sorceress grinned. "I was a High Priestess, Your Highness," she said. "I know things. Niniane here worked by Merlin's side. She knows his secrets, his very heart. She knows how to take him down, and we all know that to bring something like Camelot to her knees, the foundation must be removed first. You, Vivian, will have unprecedented control over the entire Unseelie Court. Imagine, all those ghouls and goblins unleashed on the city! Even the great Emrys would be overwhelmed!

"Together, we can destroy Camelot. We can bring Arthur to his knees! And we can give Morgana her rightful place on the throne. Your father will have to accept you then, princess. You won't be shunted aside anymore Niniane, the other fey will hail your triumphant coming and crown you queen!" Nimueh smirked slightly. "But most of all, you can get your revenge on that upstart, Balin."

The princess and the witch waited for your answer. It was not long in coming, because anger flared in your heart.

"I'll do it."

You turned to Vivian when she sighed. "Vivian, you must understand. Arthur may be a good king, but Albion needs a ruler like Morgana! Arthur's too kind-hearted. Morgana will be stronger, fiercer!"

"And she has a vision," Nimueh cut in. "A vision of not just Albion, but all the world united under her rule! All the world united by magic. It'll be a beautiful time, Vivian. You wouldn't have to struggle with Gaheris. The two of you could just settle down somewhere, peacefully, raise a family. Do you think you'll get that here?"

Vivian bit her lip, shaking her head. "I don't know. Gary wouldn't like it. He loves Avalon, he wouldn't want to leave. And do you know what I would have to promise those Unseelie demons before they'd follow me? Probably a whole Roman legion!"

Nimueh giggled. "Only one? My dear, I could get you fifty!"

* * *

><p>And so it was that the three of you marched back into the World of Men (there was no Freya to hold your hand this time) and told Morgana your intentions.<p>

It was as Nimueh had said; the would-be queen of Camelot welcomed you with open arms - and a smirk worthy of the most evil temptresses!

When you next saw Merlin, to say he was unhappy about your choice is a bit of an understatement, though whether he was surprised is up for debate. You lost six inches of your beautiful red hair, and a large chunk of pride. But, you managed to throw Balin across the room, which was a wonderful accomplishment even if he did survive.

Vivian did indeed promise the Unseelie Court fifty Roman legions (on demand, no less), and they followed with almost no question. Gaheris, brokenhearted by his beloved's betrayal, struck back with a vigour that surprised even her. You figured he thought that, because he had 'failed to reform' Vivian, he might as well stop her from destroying everything. But in the end, there was only one thing he could do to stem the flow of demons: he could, as King of Avalon, forcibly recall them back into the Fairy Land, and shut the two worlds off from each other.

You're pretty sure he and Merlin had a long talk about this, because it was a drastic action, to bar all but the dead from entering and sneaky individuals from leaving. It meant that Nimueh would have to return to her death. It meant that Gaheris couldn't assist Camelot with his armies, either.

So. Rather a lose-lose situation.

When Morgana heard all of this, she almost growled. "We must have the Unseelie Court! Without them, who's to say if we can win this war? Go and stop that blasted King from closing the Gate!" She also gave the three of you a small stone. "If you need to get out of there quickly, just use this transportation stone and it'll take you to me. Now hurry!"

Your task was easier said than done, since not only was Gaheris there, but also Merlin, Balin, and the Lady of the Lake. It hit you, at that moment, that if the Gate closed, Merlin and Freya would be cut off from each other, possibly forever, since Merlin was immortal (yet another thing to resent). This thought made you slightly uncomfortable, but you ignored it.

The ritual for closing the Gates of Avalon could be found in an ancient volume of Fairy lore, written by fey, men, and dragons alike. It involved the strength of two sorcerers (one had to be a legitimate ruler of Avalon), ten candles (all of which had to stay lit for the entire spell), and a fifty-line poem that had to be memorised.

Luckily for the casters, it didn't have to be recited by one of the participating sorcerers; it is said by fairy grandmothers that the dead have long memories, and Freya's certainly was put to the test that night. You had hoped the old saying might ring false, but her soft voice rang true in the darkened clearing, echoing over the still waters in which she stood.

"We have to do something!" Nimueh hissed once Freya had reached the tenth line. "That Gate is going to close in just a few minutes, and I'm going to get sucked in!"

"Alright," you muttered. "Maybe we could take out the candles. They're essential!" You raised a hand, but Vivian pulled you back.

"No! Think! Merlin's there, and he probably knows more than we do. Do you suppose him an idiot?" Seeing your look, she rolled her eyes. "Whatever. But he's probably done something to protect them."

"Do you have a better idea? She's almost done with the poem!"

The princess hesitated, and that was all Nimueh needed. Silently, she leapt out of the trees and cast a calculated curse at the Lady-

Which, of course, did not actually touch her. But it served as a marvellous distraction, and Freya lost her place with a start. Nimueh's victory was short-lived, however, when a well-placed spell knocked her head over heels. Freya gulped and started again.

You had thought that since Merlin would obviously be the other sorcerer, he wouldn't be able concentrate on much else. In fact, you had depended on it.

Well, unfortunately for you, Merlin had left himself free to obliterate all competition. He scowled at the sight of Nimueh, and then he scowled at Vivian, and then he scowled at you.

_Great__. _This _should __be __fun__._

As I mentioned you griped about before, fairies don't have the strongest magic, and you, even as the princess of fairies, were not an exception. But you had always prided yourself in your illusions (a fairy's true strength, deception), you supposed those would have to do. Calling up all your power, you set to battle the most powerful warlock in existence.

Vivian tried to command the water in the lake, but Freya gave a little contrary cough without breaking her stride, and nipped that spell in the bud. This left her with only defensive spells against the onslaught.

Nimueh, being dead, recovered quickly from most attacks, striding forward and slashing with her hand. An invisible _whip__!_ of air came spinning out of nothingness, but Merlin blocked with barely a vague gesture. Vivian muttered, and the ground itself trembled, opening at Merlin's feet, but he didn't even deign to notice it.

You considered what could be done to bring your powerful cousin down. It shouldn't be as hard for you - hadn't you lived with him for ten years? What were his weaknesses? Freya, to be sure, but she was protected, Balin as well. Arthur was surely his greatest weakness, but the king wasn't around to threaten. Making him angry would serve only to turn him even deadlier, as Nimueh's non-existent body could have attested.

Overcome him with sheer power? Yeah . . . definitely not. Take him by surprise? Well . . . maybe.

It was worth a try. But you had to try fast, because Freya was reaching the closing stanzas. You remembered the wyverns when you were younger, and visualised them in your head; their long, lean bodies, their ugly snouts, their cold unintelligent eyes, and their bat-like wings. As you concentrated, a fuzzy image appeared in front of you, knee-high. The image sharpened to almost imperceptible clarity, and you smiled. Didn't I say illusions were a fairy's strong point? The wyverns snarled and leapt. Merlin, calmly occupied with removing a strangling vine (courtesy of Nimueh), was obviously not expecting such an attack. Your creatures passed through him, but he lost all concentration and ended up burning part of his arm instead of the plant. Vivian, seeing an opening, hooked her magic around his leg and pulled it out from under him. The vine whipped around his neck and pulled tight.

Panic squeezed your heart at the sight of him struggling on the cold ground. The wyverns, stalking around for another onslaught, flickered and died. When Vivian stepped forward to get him, you pulled her back without conscious thought, swallowing down a cry.

Freya, her words stumbling slightly with panic, gasped out the last words in the poem at the same time Merlin, turning blue, disintegrated both the plant and Nimueh's spells. Gaheris and Balin cried out the last words in the incantation.

For moment, nothing happened, and you allowed yourself the vision that maybe the spell had failed.

Nimueh screamed. Everyone jumped and looked at her. Her body grew fainter with every passing second, the crystal that allowed her to leave Avalon glowing strongly. Her very essence was being attracted to the Fairy Land.

And it wasn't just her: Freya was watching resignedly as she faded away. Even you felt a strong pull inside of you. It seemed to say _'__Your __home __is __leaving__; __don__'__t __you __want __to __follow __it__?'_

The temptation was strong, but something stopped you, something that told you your work wasn't finished here. There was still something left to do. But if you stayed on the lakeshore, surely there would be nothing to stop Avalon from pulling you into it whether you wanted to go or not. Desperately, you looked around for something to stop the drag.

Of course! Morgana's stone! Frantically, you cried, "Vivian! Use the stone and get us out of here! There's nothing we can do."

The princess fumbled pulling out the small stone, but her magic flowed easily into it, and with a spark it activated. A whirlwind started up to carry the two of you away. Nimueh's cries stopped as she left the human world behind. You felt something like relief, and a bit of sadness.

A hand latched around your wrist, physically dragging you back. With a scream, you clung closer to Vivian, and suddenly you were being pulled through space. It seemed a tight fit; like you were going someplace you weren't supposed to.

The hand tightened, and followed.

The three transportees fell with a gasp onto cold ground, and you scrambled away from the hand. It was Merlin, of course it was. Anger filled you. Could you never escape him?

Your eyes locked, and it seemed like they were answering your unspoken question: _No__, __cousin__. __You __will __never __be __rid __of __me__. __Not __as __long __as __you __live__. _Those eyes fixed you to the ground even as they glowed gold, and Vivian had to pull you out of the way to avoid his curse.

It was about this time that you realised where you were. It was the Crystal Cave._What __in __heaven__'__s __name __is __Morgana __doing __here__? _you thought crossly as you threw yourself behind a crystal growth to avoid another spell.

The witch, it appeared, had been trying to look into the crystals. _Good __luck __with __that__, _you thought. _The __only person __I __know __who __can __do __that __successfully __is __Merlin__, __and __he__'__s __in __a __bit __of __a __mood __right __now__._

Morgana let out a rather unladylike squeak as Merlin turned the full devastation of his attention on her. She threw herself out of the way just in time, and the spell got the crystals behind her instead. You found yourself unsurprised when they didn't break, not because you were certain Merlin hadn't been aiming to kill (at this point, he could have been aiming to do anything), but because, well, it was the _Crystal __Cave_. One, even Merlin, does not simply smash it to bits. This made you feel a little bit better, because it meant he couldn't reach you behind the crystals without resorting to desperate measures.

Morgana darted out of her temporary hiding place and struck. As she went on the offence, you couldn't help envying her. As Merlin's apprentice, you hadn't learned a whole lot of offensive spells, mostly defensive and otherwise, but Morgana was a High Priestess, and therefore had the knowledge of ages at her fingertips. Her spellcasting was glorious. But would it be enough? The two counteracted, parried, ducked, drawing closer together. You realized, as the fight progressed, that Merlin was probably going to win with a combination of luck, power, and sheer ingenuity. Something had to be done.

Vivian leapt out of nowhere, shouting dramatically. It seemed over-the-top to you, but it certainly got Merlin's attention. Unfortunately, it also distracted Morgana.

Again you hesitated, for just one split second - then, you acted. You threw yourself around the side of the crystal column and shouted the strongest binding spell you could perform.

Amazingly, it worked. Merlin lost his balance as a whole cartload of chains appeared out of nowhere and wrapped around him. Immediately, his magic flared to life and the chains started to disintegrate. You didn't even think, just tackled him; Merlin may have been an all-powerful warlock, but you figured even he would have trouble incanting a difficult counter-spell if his little cousin was trying to pull his hair out by the roots. Swiftly, Morgana knelt down and started muttering over the bindings, placing spell after spell into the links, tightening them. Merlin could not fail to notice this, and if Vivian hadn't joined you in restraining him, Morgana probably wouldn't have gotten through the first sentence. As it was, you hoped Morgana was quick.

The chains seemed to flash and ripple with every word the witch spoke, sending a funny feeling down your aching spine. Merlin shuddered along with the ripples, and his struggles grew weaker. Finally, when you started to think the chains were literally killing him (though you knew that couldn't be possible, he was immortal, wasn't he?), Morgana pulled the two of you away from him. Her face was set and lined with anger.

"Let's trap this upstart warlock here," she said, her voice trembling. "So that he can't help Arthur." Morgana smiled. "I'll bet you anything Camelot wouldn't last a week without him."

"Morgana . . . " Merlin gasped. "Please, don't. Just listen to me for once. I need to tell you-"

"_Silence__!_" the Priestess shrieked. "I do not want to hear you talk." She turned away from him. "Here's what we'll do. You two follow my lead. I know a powerful sleeping spell that should keep him in its grasp for the a couple thousand years."

_A __couple __thousand __years__?_ you thought. _Er__, __right__. __This __is __Merlin __we__'__re __talking __about__, __sweetheart__. __You__'__ll __be __lucky __if __it __lasts __a __week__. _But you nodded along with Vivian. You turned your cold eyes on your fallen cousin. You had come this far and you couldn't turn back now.

You wondered if that was what Morgana told herself every night so she could sleep.

The three of you stepped close to the panting warlock, crowding around his feet and overshadowing his face. Morgana started to speak, and you and Vivian followed her words, letting the power flow through you, fill you up like a warm mug of cider, then shiver out through your eyes and under his skin.

"_Ic __ingeseted __ác __gefeterian __æt __Merlin__. __Géars __æt __n __nig __átellan __carlmann __yrfebéc __sl __p __innan __ác __þéostre __legerbedd__._"

While you spoke, Merlin managed to get on his knees, but the enchantment did not take hold immediately. His eyes were sad, but resigned; he knew there was no way out. Morgana's intervention was what all of you needed: the power to stop even Merlin. Eventually he gave up any struggles, and surveyed the three of you, spread out in front of him in array. He looked tired, so very tired. He said nothing.

"Do you admit defeat?" Morgana said coldly, triumph lighting her eyes. You felt a twinge; there wasn't any need to gloat, he was already helpless.

Merlin sat up straighter and looked her square in the eye. "For now," he replied, "but know you cannot defeat that which is right forever. One day, I will return. Pray you are not alive when this happens." It didn't sound like an idle threat, either. Then, Merlin sighed. "In fact, you won't be alive, this I can assure you of."

The witch raised one perfectly skeptical eyebrow. "How can you be so certain? Have your visions told you this?"

"No, they have not. But I know it for a surety."

"How?" Vivian interrupted, her curiosity obviously overriding her scorn of the warlock.

The very air in the cave seemed to chill as Merlin spoke his next words. "I know because you will be cursed. All of you. By me, right here, right now."

The three of you blinked and glanced at each other uneasily. Merlin continued, turning to Vivian:

"Princess, you mess with forces you do not understand. Your 'friends' are still waiting for their fifty legions, and they won't leave you until you have given it to them.

"Niniane—" for a moment he wasn't able to go on, his jaw tightening. "—you were jealous of Balin when there was no need. What did you think, I would love you less because of him? You're an idiot. Did you think Morgana would bring peace to this land?" He scowled. "Good luck with that. Forever your foolishness will hang about your neck. You will never be rid of it.

"And you tell Nimueh this when you see her: when she most needs them, in her darkest hour of need, her precious spells will desert her. She will be left with only memories."

Finally, he turned to the proud witch. She looked at him scornfully, and he cocked his head to one side, considering.

"You want Arthur dead, Morgana?" he asked rhetorically. "Fine, he will die as you wish. But you will not rejoice to see it, for he will be following you out of this life. You want the throne? You will never get it. You want to be rid of him forever?" Your cousin's eyes seemed to glow in the dim light as he leaned forward threateningly. "_You __will __never __be __rid __of __him__. _Mark my words, Morgana, for they will become your reality. When Arthur joins you in the Land of the Dead, he will be sleeping. I bind you to him until he wakes again. You will stand by his side as his guardian and protector against anything that might wish to harm him . . . as I did. This is my curse, and may you remember it well, because it will not depart from you until Arthur's time has come again."

Merlin lowered his head to his chest, finally giving into the enchantment, as if he hadn't just shocked Morgana to her very core. The sorceress stared in amazement for several seconds, then she sprang forward and grabbed Merlin's shoulders.

"Merlin! Take it back! How could you do this to me . . . !"

You and Vivian rushed to her side and pulled her away. Merlin fell to the ground unmoving, eyes closed, breath slow and even, face paler than you had ever seen it. Morgana didn't seem to be able to move properly. "Forever . . ." she kept on muttering, "he's doomed me forever . . . "

* * *

><p>If one thing can be said of Merlin, it is that his threats are never idle. Morgana didn't even last a week after his cursing, and Morgause, crying out and distracted by her beloved sister's demise, fell to the same knight's blade. It surprised you that Vivian outlasted the witch-sisters, and perhaps it will surprise other hearers, especially hearing of her distress. But she actually outlasted you all. You know, of course, the circumstances of your own death. Needless to say, you never got your revenge on Balin for 'stealing your job', but he certainly got his revenge on you for 'doing something unspeakably horrible to his teacher'.<p>

And so you died. And then Vivian fell, and with her went the knowledge of how to free the great warlock, Merlin Emrys. Not that that will matter, in the end. He's Merlin, he will find his way out of that cave.

As he said, around your neck, Niniane, hangs the weight of all your crimes. Better than Vivian, better than Nimueh, better even than Morgana, you knew what your cousin was. You knew the good and the bad. You knew the potential in his spirit. You knew all there was to know about him. And still you turned your back and went the other way.

On your head be it.

"**Love ****never ****dies ****a ****natural ****death****. ****It ****dies ****because ****we ****don****'****t ****know ****how ****to ****replenish ****its ****source****. ****It ****dies ****of ****blindness ****and ****errors ****and ****betrayals****. ****It ****dies ****of ****illness ****and ****wounds****; ****it ****dies ****of ****weariness****, ****of ****witherings****, ****of ****tarnishings****." **

— **Anaïs ****Nin**

* * *

><p>Yeah . . . heheh, I'm a bit of an angst-lover. But then again, who in this fanbase isn't? Because if you don't like angst . . . you are watching the wrong show, man.<p>

So I'm going to be having a busy time next week, so I don't know when I'll have time to post next, but I'll get it up as soon as I can! But hey, more time to write! Because next time, you get a brand-new chapter that has never before been posted. I think anyway . . . :)

Until next time!


	13. COWARDS

AN: Very sorry at how long this took to put up. You'd think that with no school I'd have more time to do other things, but _nooooooooooo_. I also promised a completely new chapter, but every time I tried to write something, I'd just think, "Haven't I written this before?" It just seemed very same-to-same. Maybe I'll post it as a one-shot or something, but not here. So, may I present, Cowards.

Changes: Nothing really important.

* * *

><p>Cowards<p>

**Memory ****Loss****, ****Manliness****, ****and ****Monsters**

_1387_

"Stan. Stan. _Stan__._"

The rain was tapping on his face, and someone's hand was gently rapping his cheek. He opened his eyes.

Two faces, one slender and pale, the other plump and dark, swam into view. It was his friend Merry and sister Fran.

"How are you feeling?" Merry questioned, helping him sit up a little.

Stan put a hand to his forehead. "Strange. How much did I drink last night?"

Fran almost smiled. "For once, not a drop. But Merry _did_ clout you round the head with a stick, and I think we dropped you at least once; does that explain the pain you're feeling?"

Stan frowned. "Um, yes? Why was there clouting and dropping? Why were you carrying me anywhere?"

He suddenly became aware of two men standing behind Merry and Fran. One was older, with greying hair and dark eyes, while the other was blonde and sporting a very nice black eye.

Fran and Merry exchanged glances, which immediately started off warning bells in Stan's brain. "You don't remember anything?" his sister questioned.

His eyes narrowed. "What should I be remembering?"

Merry sighed. "Tell us what the last thing you remember is, Stan."

Stan thought back. It had been something late at night, he knew that, and it had been dark. Where had he been? Oh yes . . . he and a few of his mates had decided to visit the caves in the middle of the night. Something to do with a bet.

"I was out with my drinking buddies," he said. "We came down to the caves, dunno why. We were already a bit drunk. And then . . ."

He almost gulped. Something had happened down in those caves, something terrible. He wasn't sure he wanted to think about it.

"Just tell us, Stan," Merry urged.

Looking into his friend's eyes, Stan realized that Merry, at least, already knew what had happened. But he wanted to hear it from Stan's own mouth.

"It was . . . it was the Mad Men."

He looked up to survey the others' expressions. None of them showed an ounce of surprise.

"There were about four of them, and they came in a rush. We wouldn't have stood much of a chance even if we had been sober. They dragged us down into a large cavern."

Everyone who heard the Mad Men speak knew about The Cavern. It was becoming infamous.

"And then, I saw something so surprising. It was-"

He could not say it. It was too strange.

But, looking around in a pleading sort of way, he realized he probably didn't have to say it.

"You already know, don't you?" It wasn't a question.

Merry pressed his lips together. "Yes. The person you saw . . . it was Therimas, wasn't it?"

Stan nodded miserably. Therimas was a physician that lived on the outskirts of London. Everyone knew him. He was brilliant and crazy and absolutely adorable.

"He's been doing this?" Stan asked, almost choking on the words. It was impossible, and yet, he'd seen it with his own eyes!

"It - seems so," Fran said softly. "We saw him down there too."

With a jump, Stan realized where they were: in the woods near the cave entrance. He almost laughed with relief. "So you rescued me? I thought he was going to make us into Mad Men as well."

Once again, Merry and Fran exchanged glances. Stan's heart sank. It had been night when he went in. It was day now, behind the clouds. Where had the time gone? Was he going to get the disease as well?

Merry bit his lip. "Stan," he said in his I'm-going-to-try-and-break-this-slowly tone that always heralded Bad News, "it's been two days since you went into that cave. You came back the next morning after you went in with all the symptoms of the Madness. I'm telling you, you almost ate my house, you were so hungry!"

Stan broke in. "I got sick? I got . . . it? The disease?"

Merry nodded slowly. "I'm sorry Stan. We managed to find out where Therimas was hiding and sneak in. He's not completely mad; he's made a cure for the disease. We were able to help you."

Stan couldn't look them in the eye anymore. The Madness had been spreading across London for almost two weeks now. The victims would come out of the woods, ravenously hungry and delirious. Within hours, they would fall into a vicious cycle, switching between horrible despair, where they would stare blankly at whatever was in front of them, and monstrous rage, which included picking fights with everything in sight.

Everyone avoided those with the Madness, called Mad Men. Stan felt affection swell in his heart for his sister and friend, who had stuck with him during those dark hours. Who knew what they'd had to endure.

He was broken out of his reflection by an unfamiliar voice. Up until then, the two men in the background had remained just that, in the background, silent and watching. Now the blonde man had spoken up.

"So, now that you know, you going to apologize?"

The older man whacked him. "Ben!" he scolded.

The blonde, evidently Ben, shrugged. "What? He trashed me shop, gave me this here black eye, and almost broke me arm. Can't I at least get a 'sorry'?"

Stan felt a wave of guilt and couldn't bring himself to say anything. Merry, mistaking his silence for something else, patted his back.

"You'd best just say it, Stanny boy. He won't give up till you do."

Stan tried to smile a little. "Sorry," he said.

Ben nodded, obviously satisfied. "Accepted."

The other man rolled his eyes and stepped forward. "We haven't been introduced. I'm Tom. I've just been told about the situation here, having been away on the Continent for the past eight months. Now tell me: how's it feel to be a Mad Man?"

Before Stan could so much as 'Uh', Merry was standing up and brushing off his knees. "We haven't any time to waste. Anyone that's coming with me, come now."

"Wait, what?" Stan asked, as the others made preparations to move out. "What are we doing?"

"We're going to stop Therimas," Fran replied. "You don't have to come, but it's got to happen soon, before he does even more damage."

"He's got more of the antidote down there," said Tom. "We're hoping we can cure as many Mad Men as possible."

Fran put a hand on his arm. "Come on, Stan," she said. "Come with us."

Stan was torn between wanting to go and being ill at the thought of it, but it was clear Fran felt it best not to give him much of a choice. She knew him too well. He nodded. "Of course, I'll come."

As they set out, Stan wanted to hit something, preferably himself. _Spineless __idiot_, he thought contemptuously. _You__'__re __just __afraid__._

It was true. He also knew that one of the last things he wanted to do right now was face Therimas after what he had seen. Stan shuddered a little when he thought of it, and wondered if the others knew. _He_ certainly hadn't told them what Therimas had lurking in those dark passages.

Ben went first into the darkness, stepping carefully, holding onto the rocks. When he reached a smoother spot, Merry tossed him a flaming torch and followed. Stan was at the end, which he wasn't entirely comfortable with - but he knew he'd already looked enough like a coward that day, so he didn't complain.

Fran followed Merry, of course. Stan watched as his sister hugged close to his friend, and almost grinned. The two had been spending a lot of time in each other's company lately, which Stan had mixed feelings about. That situation was a mash of highly amusing and very weird.

Fran spoke up. "Why do you suppose he's doing this? Why is he getting people sick?"

"Now, when you say 'getting people sick'," said Tom, "do you mean he gave the disease to a few people and they've been passing it around?" Stan remembered that Tom had been gone for a while.

Merry shook his head. "As far as we know, Therimas has to get each person sick individually. All the Mad Men went missing for a little while before they appeared again."

"And he definitely got me sick," Stan put in. "Made me drink something."

"Unless he's hoping to get the maximum number of people sick," Ben muttered gloomily. Stan ignored him and continued:

"As to why, he didn't really say."

They paused at a fork, and Ben, still in the lead, looked back.

"Anyone else want to go first?" he asked sardonically, raising an eyebrow. The others smiled humorously.

"But you're doing so well, Ben!" Merry told him, smirking a little. "I think you were born to be a leader!"

Stan got the feeling Ben hadn't been expecting anyone to take his place, because he merely gave Merry a cold smile and continued on. They slowed down and went quietly, trying to sneak.

One nice thing about Mad Men was the fact that they could not keep themselves hidden; as soon as they spotted something living, they would invariably leap out and attack.

The downside of this was the fact that they were also very strong, fast, determined, and unafraid.

The Mad Man got a good hold on both Ben and Merry before they even registered he was there. Another rushed the other three. Fran was first in his line of sight; she shrieked and slashed out with her torch. He showed remarkable regard for his life by dodging the sweeping flames and hurtling into Tom instead. Tom's head smacked against the cave wall, stunning him, and allowing for the Mad Man to begin his work - which was, of course, beating Tom up.

Fran grabbed the attacker's arm, trying to pull him away, but he threw her off. She cried, "Stan! _Do __something_!"

Stan was standing against the wall, frozen. He didn't seem to have the power to move forward. Terror froze his heart. _He_ had been like that, not long ago. How many people had he hurt during his crazed frenzies?

Fran grabbed his arm and shook him. "Stan," was all she said, but it was a plea and remonstration in one.

Once again, Stan called himself his favorite nickname: _Spineless __idiot_. _You __just __don__'__t __want __to __lose__. __You__'__re __afraid __of __getting __hurt__._

The siblings came forward, and Stan's hand touched the Mad Man's shoulder. He wasn't really thinking, but he had, for one second, glanced towards Merry and Ben; they had almost subdued the man that had attacked them. Stan did not know what made him say it - perhaps looking at Merry - but he felt the word slip out of of his mouth without consulting his brain first. The Mad Man was immediately affected: his entire body went limp and slumped right on top of Tom, who didn't seem to notice.

Fran gasped. "Oh, be careful Stan!" but Tom was still too hazy to have seen anything, and Merry, feeling the word and knowing what had happened, whipped around and for a second his eyes pierced Stan; the young man fancied there was something like approval in that gaze.

They left the Mad Men lying there. Merry and Ben had to support Tom for a little bit as he recovered from the blow.

"Those Mad Men hit hard," he remarked. Ben grunted; he had another bruise forming.

After making sure Tom was alright, Merry gestured deeper into the cave. "It's not far. I'd say we're lucky if Therimas didn't hear anything, so we'd better hurry before he sends more of his goons."

This was agreed upon, and they tried to move both quickly and quietly; Stan soon discovered this was not one of his strong points, after Fran raised her eyebrows at him for the sixth time. He felt the urge to point out that she wasn't silent either, but decided that would be pushing it.

Therimas's main working place, the last place that Stan could remember, was, as Merry had said, not far from the fighting ground. The corridor gradually opened up into a fairly large cavern. It was an interesting sight, and for a few moments the group simply crouched in the shadows and observed.

Hooks had been hammered into the walls, from which had been hung lanterns to illuminate the scene. Half a dozen tables were stuffed into the space, and they were simply overflowing with all sorts of things that Stan didn't know the names of. Another corridor ran away across from them. A small fire (the smoke exiting through another opening in the cave) held a large cauldron; it was filled to the brim with a faintly blue substance that simmered with hundreds and hundreds of tiny little bubbles - like simmering milk or something. Stan, with a gulp, realized he recognized the substance.

He tapped Merry's shoulder, and whispered, "That's was Therimas fed us. That's the Madness, in the cauldron."

"So we destroy that?" Tom asked immediately.

Merry hesitated, but only for a second. "Yes," he said. He beckoned them all closer. "It doesn't look like anyone's in there, but I have a bad feeling . . . Fran, you keep watch. If you see or hear anything, warn us immediately. Ben and Stan, you find some more of the antidote. Get as much as you can. Tom and I will destroy the disease. We'll have to be careful, though; I think it's probably flammable."

The four nodded, and, looking side to side as they went, they cautiously entered the cavern.

It went better than expected: Ben already had a good idea of where the antidote was, so they started filling their pockets with it. As they did it, Stan couldn't help thinking that for a man that seemed to want to make an army of crazy people, Therimas had certainly made a lot of craziness-cure. They eventually had to borrow Fran's apron to take more. He wasn't sure what Merry and Tom were doing to get rid of the Madness, but there had been no sighs of frustration yet.

Of course, the easiness didn't last. About five minutes or so into the project, Fran hissed, "Shh! I hear something!"

They all stood stock-still and listened. Sure enough, footsteps were approaching - heavy, pounding steps, and, quieter still, a sound like pattering rain; the sound of many feet moving faster.

"Hide!" Fran said. Luckily, there were no shortage of places to hide in the cavern, though most of them consisted of squeezing into holes in the rocks and crouching behind things like the cauldron.

The pair of heavy footsteps got there first, and, as inconspicuously as possible, the five sneakers peered out to look at the figure.

Four of them gaped. The fifth, Stan, cringed; here it was, Therimas's goon that thundered through the tunnels. The monster.

It must have been eight or nine feet tall, and it was one of the most hideous things most of them had set eyes on; its skin was a horrible milky-white color, and scars ran all over it. Dark, bloodshot eyes darted everywhere. Even though it looked only like a monstrous approximation of a human, there was a sharp intelligence written all over it.

Out of the corridor came Mad Men, streaming out behind the creature. Stan noticed that although the enormous monster showed no animosity towards the crazies, the Mad Men did not go near it. Not all of the Mad Men were men, of course; two were obviously women, even under the dirt and filth that covered them all.

When the the Mad Men had gotten in (there must have been at least ten of them), they looked back the way they had come. Someone else was still coming.

Stan knew who it was.

Therimas stepped into the cavern, straight and tall. His white hair was shorter than when Stan had last seen him, but otherwise he looked the same. He observed the room, the monster watching the Mad Men with an expression that just dared them to come any closer, and the Mad Men themselves becoming more and more agitated.

Therimas spoke: "_Ástyntan__._" Stan jumped at the word; it was Old English, the language Merry had been teaching him. The word, he realized, meant 'stop'.

Old English wasn't spoken by people nowadays. Unless they were . . . but Therimas couldn't be . . .

Therimas was speaking again, still in Old English. Stan thought he might have been saying something about finding something . . . or someone . . .

_Oh__!_ he thought, gulping. _He__'__s __talking __about __finding _us!

The Mad Men responded to the foreign words, and Stan knew it wouldn't be long before they were found, the room was so small. He could see Ben from where he was at; the man had his eyes closed, and his expression was resigned. Ben didn't see any way out of this either.

Stan looked around frantically as the Mad Men drew closer. There must be something he could do! But he couldn't see a way out.

Suddenly, Merry and Tom came surging out from behind the cauldron, yelling like maniacs. They were wielding wooden spoons and broken bottles. Stan's heart leapt at the sight of them. Maybe there was hope for them all yet.

The Mad Men shrieked in triumph, surging forward. Against ten of them, even brave Merry and strong Tom didn't stand a chance. It was like deja vu, watching his two friends being wrestled towards Therimas as he had been taken.

_He__'__s __not __going __to __turn __them__, __is __he__?_ Stan glanced frantically at the cauldron; although he could tell a lot of it was gone, and that it was no longer boiling, he couldn't see if there was any left.

Therimas obviously wasn't too surprised by who it was. "Well, if it isn't Merry," he said, his voice almost friendly, just how Stan remembered it. "I rather wondered when you were going to show up."

"Hello, Therimas," Merry replied stiffly. "I'm surprised to see you here. What's with your new friends? Do they have a new strain of rabies or something?"

Therimas laughed easily. "Always the cheeky one, aren't you? But I think you already know what they are, and how they came to be here. You may have even guessed what I'm doing."

Tom broke in. "Raising an army, perhaps? An army that won't be afraid to die for you, just as long as you point them in the right direction?"

Therimas eyed him. "I'm afraid I don't know you," he said. "Your name is?"

"Tom," the man replied, his chin lifting a little, and Stan fancied his grey hair shone in the lantern-light.

"Tom," Therimas repeated. "Well, I see no harm in telling you; you're not leaving this cave anyway. Yes, I'm building an army, a vengeful army."

"And him?" Merry asked, jerking his chin towards the watchful monster. "Is he your captain, or just your first attempt?"

Therimas turned to look at the giant, and smiled. "Oh, I suppose you could say that. Joseph here was not intended to be a soldier, but he's actually very useful in that respect." Joseph seemed almost pleased by this praise as Therimas looked back at them. "He's very intelligent, you know. He's like a human. Except, I forgot to give him any vocal cords, so he's mute."

Merry and Tom exchanged horrified glances; Stan thought he could hear Fran gasping from her hiding place.

"You, what, _made __him_?" Merry asked, not sure if he had heard right. But Therimas nodded.

"You remember all those months ago, when the bodies went missing from graveyards all over London?" he asked. Merry nodded slowly, while Tom looked rather confused. "That was me, scavenging around for things to build him with. And it worked. He's perfect."

"How did you bring him to life?" Merry asked, sounding rather disgusted. "And more importantly, _why_?"

Therimas went to stand by Joseph, looking proud, as if it were his son. "Everyone always looked at me strangely, you know, because I was a good doctor. They thought I was using magic to heal my patients. Magic! Pah!"

He spat on the floor. "Magic is for the weak that don't have the brains to do it otherwise!" he said. "I don't need magic, no. I have something infinitely greater - science!"

Stan had never seen Therimas so worked up, but he had recently come to the conclusion that he didn't really know the old man at all as he continued. "For four years I've been working on this project, working out how to restore dead people to life again. And finally, I've succeeded!"

For a moment, no one spoke; even the Man Men were silent as everyone watched Joseph.

"So," Merry said softly, his voice as one that had seen something long hidden, "that's the why."

Therimas turned. "Pardon me?"

"Four years?" Merry questioned. "Oh yes. I see what you're doing here."

His blue eyes seemed to pierce Therimas's very soul. They certainly pierced his intentions.

"Your wife died almost five years ago, didn't she?" said the young man. "Is that what this is? Your attempt to get her back?"

Therimas stiffened, and Stan knew that Merry had been spot-on. "It's none of your business why I do what I do!" he hissed. "It's none of your business at all!"

Merry spoke again. "I wonder what we would find if we dug up your wife's grave. An empty coffin? Or nothing at all? Where's she hidden, Therimas? Is she alive again, or are you still working on fixing her body?"

Therimas's whole face was red. "So what? I'll bring her back if I want, and I'll get the men who killed her, too!"

Everyone in London knew how she had died. The answer was simple: outlaws living in the woods. And everyone knew they were still there.

"And that's why you're building an army?" said Tom shrewdly. Stan had to admire the man; he probably didn't have a clue what was going on, but he was still on top of things. "To go after them?"

"Aye," said Therimas. "And I'll have my beloved Prunella back. She'll thank me for it, too."

"How can you be so sure she's not happy where she is, waiting for you to come to her?" Tom snapped. "Why drag her back into her injured, decayed body, to face you when you've done so much wrong in her name? How do you think she'll feel about that?"

"Look, Therimas, I know you think you can't face life without her," Merry said softly, "but you're wrong. You _can_."

Therimas rounded on him, his face half-mad. "Shut up!" he roared. "You don't know what it's like to lose someone you care about, to feel so helpless as their life leaves them and you can do _nothing_!"

Merry's eyes flashed with something Stan didn't even want to comprehend, and his lips pressed together like he holding words in. "Don't pretend you know what I feel, Therimas," he said, voice at once cold as ice and trembling with pent-up emotions. "You don't know me at all."

"You've got to let her go," Tom said quietly. "Life happens, this is way things are meant to be. You can kick against the pricks, but it will only bring you more pain in the end."

But Therimas was done listening. "_Ábréotan __gehwilc_," he said coldly, turning away.

_Kill __them_. Stan's heart went cold.

_I __have __to __do __something__!_ he thought desperately. _But __what__?_

His eyes lighted on the cauldron. Vaguely, Merry's words came back to him: _"__I __think __it__'__s __probably __flammable__."_

Stan thought there were lots of things in this cave there were probably flammable.

_Time __to __be __a __hero__, __Stan__,_ he thought, and leapt out of his hiding place.

Fran had jumped out a split second before him. Not bothering to acknowledge the other's presence - there was no time to do anything - they both snatched lanterns off of the wall, raced over the cauldron, and, pulling the protectors off, they almost doused the flames by sticking them as close to the liquid as they dared.

The resulting _whoosh__!_ almost took their arms off. Cries of shock echoed in the cavern as the whole cauldron caught fire and started spitting sparks in every direction; miniature fires sprang up everywhere. Even the Mad Men, usually unafraid of anything, reared back from the spectacle.

"Are you trying to kill us all?" Ben roared as he threw himself out of his hiding place.

"Just go!" Stan yelled over the hubbub. "If we leave fast, we'll be fine!"

In the confusion, Tom grabbed Stan and Merry took Fran's hand, and they tried to make them leave. There was a moment of panic when Ben almost forgot Fran's loaded apron, but it was quickly fixed.

Therimas hadn't left, and neither had Joseph. "Come on!" Merry cried. "That cauldron's going to blow, you'll be buried if you stay!"

Therimas shook his head. He suddenly looked very tired. "No, I'm not leaving Prunella," he told them. "Take Joseph, and protect him; he is innocent."

And he turned and walked away. He'd barely gone two steps before Joseph followed him. The old scientist looked back at his loyal creation, and smiled. "Or, I suppose he will come with me."

Therimas fixed them with an eagle eye. "Go," he said. "Or you will die."

And the two turned their backs on the group, and headed into the unknown.

Ben elbowed Merry and pointed; the cauldron was overflowing. The tiny little bubbles were not even visible through the flames that covered the potion's surface. Sparks flickered.

"Let's get out of here," Tom muttered, and they obeyed willingly. As they darted through the twisting tunnels they heard the cauldron explode. The ground shook, and the walls trembled.

"Um . . ." said Merry, watching pebbles and rocks clatter around them. "Run?"

The cave collapsed behind them.

* * *

><p>It turned out that Tom had called for some friends to help them, and they were waiting outside the cave, holding the howling Mad Men prisoners. There was plenty of antidote to go around.<p>

Stan, even though he knew horrible things had happened, that lonely Therimas and innocent Joseph were dead, couldn't help but feel entirely at ease, like all was right with the world. He was not under any illusion that this feeling would last, so he tried to make the best of it.

Merry was sitting watching the clouds go by and blinking in the rain. Stan sat down next to him.

"Why did Therimas do what he did?" he asked.

Merry didn't look at him. "He missed his wife. He was devoted to her, and he . . . he wasn't strong enough to imagine really living without her. So he always imagined her being there again. Sometimes grief can do that to you, especially, if you know you aren't going to see the person in a very long while."

His voice broke a little at the end. Stan pretended he hadn't heard.

"But he's with her now," he pointed out. "Problem solved."

Merry laughed softly. "Yes, problem solved."

They sat in silence for a little while, then Stan noticed where Merry was looking. He rolled his eyes.

"You know," he said casually, "Fran thinks very highly of you." Merry turned and raised an eyebrow; his cheeks were just a little pink under the rain. "Very highly indeed."

The young man shook his head. "And I think highly of her."

"Oh hush," Stan snorted. "You don't have to pretend with me, Merry. I know you're in love with her, just say it! I don't mind."

Merry gave him an unreadable sideways glance, then sighed deeply. "Why is it always girls whose names start with 'F'?" he muttered.

"What?" Stan asked, not sure if he'd heard correctly.

Merry shook his head. "Maybe you're right, and I should tell her," he said, his eyes softening as he looked over at Fran. "But maybe . . . "

Stan slapped him on the back, nearly pitching him into the mud. "Go," he all but ordered. "Tell her. Don't follow my cowardly example. Be a man."

Merry grinned from ear to ear. "Cowardly? You were anything but a coward in that cave, Stan. Good thinking, that."

"Good thinking, eh? This is also good thinking: hitting you if you don't go tell my sister how you really feel _right __now__, __you __coward__._"

Merry chortled, and walked away.

Stan leaned back, satisfied. Maybe everything would be right in the world. Therimas was with his wife, Joseph was where no one could ridicule him, and his sister was about to become the happiest woman alive.

And Stan? Well, he'd have to ask Merry to teach him more magic, of course - the stuff was addicting! - but that was easily arranged.

Maybe being a coward wasn't so bad after all. As long as you were a brave coward.

"**The ****real ****hero ****is ****always ****a ****hero ****by ****mistake****; ****he ****dreams ****of ****being ****an ****honest ****coward ****like ****everybody ****else****." **

― **Umberto ****Eco**

* * *

><p>Since it's Thanksgiving, I'd like to take a moment a express my thankfulness to you all. I've always loved reading and writing, and I think writing fanfiction has helped me a lot. Betas have helped me improve my writing, and you readers have inspired me to write, write, write! And also all those that post stories that I love;) Thank you!<p>

Sentimentalism over:) Please review!


	14. CLUES

AN: Also known as The Beginning of the End;) One thing: Make sure to notice that dates at the start of every scene, because they're not always in order.

Changes: Little things.

* * *

><p>Clues<p>

**The ****Once ****and ****Future ****King****, ****in ****the ****Attic****, ****with ****the ****Photo ****Album**

_August__, 2007_

"This is a bad idea."

"What are you, chicken?"

"_No_. I just don't want to make Father angry."

"Is poor Wart scared of his Daddy?"

"_Miri_ . . ."

Miriam Caswell laughed in his face. "Come on, Arthur," she begged him, still grinning. "I want to see what's up there."

Arthur Peterson sighed long-sufferingly, glanced quickly downstairs, then brushed past his best friend and up the ladder.

"Hurry up," he hissed down, "Dad'll be home soon, and he won't be happy if he finds us here."

"Yessir." Miri was already following.

The attic of the Peterson household would perhaps remind one of a yard sale; almost nothing was interrelated. Boxes of old books were stacked against the far wall, while closer at hand sat a few relics from Arthur's childhood. The two surveyed the room, not sure what to look at first. Sunlight, made weak by the clouds that half-covered the Welsh sky, streamed in from a small round window across the way.

Miri scampered towards a box and opened it. "Come on!" she urged. "You said you wanted to hurry, so hurry!"

Arthur rolled his eyes at her stubborn determination to break every rule his father had ever set, but he moved forward to inspect another box.

Most of the stuff was hardly worth mentioning; luggage, fans, technical manuals, a binky, and other such nonsense. Arthur was thoroughly disappointed - not that he showed it.

"Hey, Arthur!" Miri hissed. "Come here!"

She sounded excited, so he went over to where she was crouched in front of an old locked trunk. Wordlessly, she pointed at a pair of initials by the lock.

_YLD__._

Without really knowing what he was doing, Arthur ran his finger along the raised letters and whispered, "Yasmin Loriane Debufort."

Miri watched his face carefully as he said this. She knew her friend missed his mother terribly, which may have seemed strange to most people, since he had never actually met her. Ever since he could remember, though, he had felt a strange sort of connection to her. Now, his face showed that longing in the far-away expression and sad eyes. Anyone that didn't know Arthur might not have seen the signs, but Miri knew Arthur very well.

"Let's open it," she suggested, elbowing him lightly. He raised an eyebrow.

"It's locked," he told her, but she just snorted, pulled out one of her hairpins, and started picking the lock. In no time, it clicked in a satisfying way and popped open.

Eagerly, the two pulled the lock off and the trunk open.

Immediately, there assaulted their eyes a strange sight: a flat cardboard piece that Arthur vaguely recognized as a record holder. On it was a dark-haired man, holding a guitar. His mouth was open and his face was contorted like he was screaming. The title read simply 'Elvis Presley'.

"Is he singing?" Miri asked incredulously as she picked the record up. "He looks like he's in pain."

"Then he must have been singing about it," Arthur replied, trying not to laugh. "Mum loved Elvis, Uncle Taylor told me. Dad can't stand to listen to it now."

There were a few other Elvis records in the trunk, along with some other singers and bands. Miri commented on the lack of Beatles. There were concert tickets and old dolls, E. Nesbit and _Lord__of__the__Rings_, and what looked like love letters tied with pink ribbon.

"Look," Miri said, smirking as she held up a book. It was _The__Sword__in__the__Stone_.

Arthur scowled and snatched it away. "Shut up."

"I'm telling you, that's where she got the name!" Miri chortled. He ignored her, having spotted something interesting.

"A photo album!" He dived to pick it up and dust it off. "Lovely. Wedding pictures, 70's hairstyles, and ridiculous shenanigans, here we come!"

He opened it.

The album was all he had dared hope for and more. An inscription in the front cover told him his grandmother had put it together as a wedding present. It seemed to be chronicling her life, starting with the normal drooling-baby pictures, to gap-toothed childhood frames, then the teenage years. He and Miri almost passed out from laughter when they saw a picture of Yasmin with cardboard cutout of Elvis.

He stopped rather abruptly at a certain picture that was taken when Yasmin was (by the date) about sixteen. Almost as one, he and Miri leaned in to examine it.

It wasn't actually that different from the other pictures; it had Yasmin in it, of course. But it wasn't Yasmin they were staring at. Her arm was around a man next to her, a man with pitch-black hair, blue eyes, and a wide, friendly smile.

Arthur felt something stir within him, in the region of his heart that he liked to think of as 'My Mum', because it seemed to ache with every thought of her. But this was not the normal feeling. It seemed to draw at something in that place that was buried deep, deeper than even Arthur knew.

He looked at Miri. She looked at him. And he realized she felt that deepness too.

"Who is he?" she whispered, her voice almost reverent.

He peered at the script, then frowned. "It doesn't say," he told her, trying to hide his own disappointment. "It just has the date and where they were."

"They were in Cardiff," Miri observed. "Maybe he lived here."

Carefully, Arthur pulled the photo out of the album. He felt like he was holding the most valuable possession in the world.

"What're you going to do with it?" Miri questioned. "Ask your dad about him?"

Arthur shook his head. "No, that would raise a lot of questions, and he'd just get angry that I was up here. No, I'll ask Granmama, or maybe Uncle Taylor. Dad didn't even know Mum when she was sixteen, so he's not likely to know anyway."

Below them, the front door opened and slammed. Ulric Peterson was home.

The two teenagers leapt to their feet, hearts pounding. Miri grinned. "D'you think we can get downstairs without him noticing?" she asked.

Arthur didn't answer, just went for the ladder.

After they had closed the trapdoor, they still had to try and brush the revealing dust off their clothing - and Ulric was yelling for his son.

"How do I look?" Miri asked breathlessly as they tried to hurry downstairs.

"Fine," Arthur grunted. He hoped his father wasn't in a bad mood.

Finally, they came to a stop in front of the tall, imposing man. Arthur tried to smile naturally, feeling like the photo was burning a hole in his pocket. "Hello, Father," he said. "Had a good day?"

Rupert Leal, the elder Peterson's bodyguard, raised an eyebrow at Arthur's strange behavior.

Even Ulric seemed to notice something was a little off. "It was fine," he said, eyeing the two. "What were you doing upstairs?"

Arthur hesitated. "Oh, we just in my bedroom."

"Talking," supplied Miri.

Ulric took in their disheveled clothes, flushed faces, and guilty expressions. "Talking?" he repeated. "So that's what they're calling it these days." He turned away. "Don't get into too much trouble."

The partners in crime breathed double sighs of relief.

* * *

><p><em>November<em>_, 2011_

Glen was brushing his hair. The process only took two minutes, as opposed to the five his girlfriend always accused him of. _Styling_ it, on the other hand, took ten.

His task complete, he went out into the kitchen to scrounge up some breakfast. His roommate Jim was sitting at the table, watching television and drinking orange juice right out of the carton.

"You going to have breakfast?" Glen asked, planning on making toast. "Or is that all?"

Jim shook his head vaguely. Glen paused, confused; which question was he answering?

He shrugged; Jim could fend for himself, just as long as it didn't interfere with his favorite shows.

A letter on the countertop caught his attention. It was addressed to him.

"Jim, when did this come?" he asked. Jim didn't seem to hear, so Glen repeated himself louder.

"Oh, um, yesterday, I think," Jim replied vaguely.

"And I wasn't told . . . why?"

Jim shrugged. "_Life __on __Mars_ reruns were on, what did you expect me to do, miss the gripping plots for a letter?" He turned away again.

Glen rolled his eyes and hoped the letter didn't have any information he should have known yesterday. With his job, you really never knew. As he opened it, he noted the lack of return address.

The paper was almost blank; all it contained was a date and an address. Glen frowned at it. The date was tomorrow; the address was in London. It had been written by - he would bet his life on it - a real typewriter. He almost laughed at the fact that every E was a little bit too far to the right. Unique typewriter.

"How mysterious," he muttered, and turned to the phone.

* * *

><p><em>August<em>_ 2007 __Again_

Most people couldn't believe it when they found out Arthur was Ulric's son. It made sense, of course; Arthur took almost entirely after his mother, with his fair hair and blue eyes. He'd even gotten a Welsh accent from living in Cardiff all his life. But what really surprised everyone was when they heard that Arthur and Miriam weren't related. For some reason that always blew people away.

Maybe it was because they bickered like siblings, or how they spent so much time in each other's company, Arthur didn't know. He imagined having Miri as an actual, blood-related sister; she practically was anyway, but for some reason this thought made him shudder.

Nobody ever bothered to find out about any of his other relatives. When he mentioned he was going to visit her that afternoon, most of his friends expressed a belief that his grandmother was dead.

He declined to respond to that.

His grandmother lived in a house that had been in her deceased husband's family for generations, one not unlike Arthur's; big, echo-y halls and plenty of servants. Most people found these houses too big and empty, but there was something about them Arthur liked, something familiar in the ground or walls that had been walked on and handled by so many of his ancestors. It felt like home.

His grandmother's arthritis was so bad, she couldn't even hug him, but she clutched his hand tightly as he sat beside her, and also greeted Miriam with enthusiasm. After the usual inquiry about her health, chat about school, work, girls, and friends, Mrs. Debufort got down to business.

"Your heart isn't in this discussion, Arthur," she said, giving his hand a few little squeezes. "What is it you came here for?"

Arthur considered denying it, but not very seriously. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the photograph. His grandmother took it, looking rather anxious. He watched with some surprise as her face went through several interesting gyrations at seeing it. Glancing at Miri, he knew she was just as interested by the reaction.

Slowly, his grandmother spoke. "You took this out of the wedding album . . . didn't you?"

Arthur nodded. "It didn't say who he was, and we wondered."

She didn't seem surprised. "I haven't seen this man since your mother's funeral," she said simply. "But oh, how his face brings back so many memories! If you'd looked a bit further in the album, you have seen more of him. He and your mother were thick as thieves, especially when she was a teenager. They went everywhere together, did everything together . . . sometimes you couldn't tell where Yasmin ended and Mervin began."

Arthur leaned forward. "Mervin?" he asked, keenly interested.

"That was his name," said Arthur's grandmother. "Mervin Eggleston. I know, what a name! But what a man!"

She sighed. "They both adored music and Elvis. _Especially _Elvis. I've never seen such an obsession. That's how they met, at one of his concerts. And then, there was no going back for either of them."

"Were they . . ." Miri hesitated under their eyes. ". . . romantically involved?"

"No," said Arthur's grandmother firmly. "I only ever saw a small crush on Yasmin's side (that didn't last very long), and friendship on his. He was like another older brother, in a way.

"Did you know that your parents wouldn't have met if it weren't for Mervin?"

"Dad told me they met at a party for ol' David McCarthy."

"Did he mention that Yasmin was Mervin's plus one?"

Miri looked impressed. "This Mervin got an invite to one of David McCarthy's parties? He must have been something."

"Yes, an old friend, I believe. But Mrs. McCarthy introduced Yasmin and Ulric, and that was that."

For a moment silence reigned. Then- "What happened to him?" asked Arthur.

His grandmother sighed. "After your mother died, he left. I understand there was a massive disagreement between him and Ulric, and he just up and went. I don't know where. He probably left Britain entirely."

"And that was the last you heard of him?" Miri asked, frowning. Arthur's grandmother nodded.

"He was a good man, Mervin, but he was so sad when Yasmin died. I almost feel like it would have done him good to see you grow up, Arthur, but he and Ulric are both stubborn beasts. I'm sorry I have so little to give you; I know how you would want to talk to him about your mother."

Arthur met her tear-filled eyes, and was shocked to discover that that had not been his intention at all. He was asking about Mervin for an entirely different reason . . .

What that reason _was_ remained to be discovered.

The three jumped when Arthur's cellphone rang. It was his father, asking where he was.

"I've got to go," he said, standing up and gripping his grandmother's shoulder. "Thank you so much for what you've told me, Grandmother."

Looking up into his deep blue eyes, his grandmother was almost struck speechless by what she saw. Standing so tall and straight above her, he might have been a king.

* * *

><p>When they reached the sidewalk outside and started for home, Arthur said decisively, "I'm going to find him. I'm going to find Mervin Eggleston."<p>

Miri bumped shoulders with him. "I'll help," she said. "There's just something about him . . ."

"I know what you mean," he admitted. "I can't explain it, though, and Dad isn't going to like this. We've got to keep it a secret from him."

His friend nodded firmly. "I understand."

They went to cross the street, and it happened so fast that Arthur's brain felt like a out-of-sync recording. One moment he was stepping out from between the cars (having looked both ways, thank you very much), and the next moment he was lying half-way across the next lane with Miri sprawled next to him. For a moment he didn't understand as a car he hadn't seen screamed to halt some feet away. The driver, a hysterical teenager probably younger than he was, jumped out, asking if they were alright. Then he understood. Miri had pushed him out of the way. He turned to her, his eyes wide.

"You saved my life," he said breathlessly. Miri, resembling a deer in the headlights, only gaped for a moment. Something seemed to have robbed her of the power of speech.

"Um," she said, "yeah. I guess I did." She shook her head. "I don't know how . . . I didn't even see the car coming! It just . . . sort of happened."

An odd sense of foreboding entered deep into Arthur's heart, but, just as with the situation with Mervin Eggleston, he didn't know why.

* * *

><p>They weren't sure where to start. Well, actually, they did; first, they tried the Internet. But after that turned up absolutely nothing, the two investigators had to search for other alternatives.<p>

"So what, you two are Clark Kent and Lois Lane now?" asked Arthur's Uncle Taylor when he was bombarded for information. "Look, I hardly knew Mervin. I went over to his house a few times with Yasmin. He-"

"His house?" Arthur interrupted, interested. "Where?"

The current owners, though friendly and forthcoming, were not able to tell them anything of importance.

"Why would they think the basement smelling weird had anything to do with Mervin?" Miri sniggered as they walked away.

It took almost a month, but not long after his seventeenth birthday the two realized another name that might be useful.

The invitation came in the mail. It was for a party being held in the honor of Regina McCarthy's sixtieth birthday.

"Ah, Mrs. McCarthy, I remember her well - such a sweet lady," said Ulric, as he perused the letter over dinner. "You'll remember that it was at one of her husband's galas that your mother and I met."

Arthur felt like he'd been hit by a lightning bolt. There was one other person he could ask - David McCarthy! Hadn't his grandmother said he and Mervin had been old friends?

"Can Miri come with us, Father?" he asked, trying to sound unaffected. "You know how boring those parties can be."

Ulric gave his son a disapproving glance, but agreed. Sometimes Arthur wasn't sure _what_ his father thought of Miri.

The McCarthys lived in London, in a townhouse that was fairly enormous even by Peterson standards. David McCarthy stood at the door, greeting all of his guests with a cheerful, booming voice that seemed to shake the ground with sheer loudness. Even though he was in his late sixties, he stood as tall, straight, and strong as someone thirty years his junior. Though not exactly muscular anymore, he certainly gave the impression that he was.

He seemed absolutely delighted when Ulric introduced his son and friend, almost taking out the eardrums of anyone within a mile expressing his pleasure.

"So this is Arthur!" he cried, clapping a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Yes, I can see that; you look a great deal like your mother."

Arthur knew this of course, having been told it by many people over the course of his life; it got a little tiring after a while. He was inclined to think of the older man as a bit of a headache-inducer. But he soon discovered that David McCarthy was so cheerful and good-natured that it was almost impossible not to like him.

Neither he nor Miri had any chance to talk to the man alone until the party was in full-swing. Arthur saw him sitting alone by the side of the room, watching everyone with a very contented expression. Without a word, the young man grabbed Miri's arm and dragged her over.

"Mr. McCarthy?" he asked politely. "May we sit here?"

David McCarthy returned Arthur's smile. "Of course you may! I've been wanting to talk to you, as a matter of fact."

They sat down and looked at him curiously. "What is it, sir?" Arthur asked. What could David McCarthy have to say to him?

"First off, none of this 'sir' nonsense; just call me David. I insist!" This said, the man turned in his seat to face Arthur, his expression strangely serious. "I have a question for you. It may be a strange question, but I'd appreciate it if you answered as truthfully as possible, alright?"

Confused, Arthur nodded. "Of course, sir, uh, David."

David fixed him with two searching eyes; there was no joking in his now. "Arthur, is there . . . have you . . . that is, do you sometimes feel like . . . like your mother is . . . well, not _alive_, obviously, but still here, in a way?"

Miri stared at David as if he were absolutely mad. She turned to Arthur to exchange an incredulous look, but stopped short.

Arthur didn't look confused at all, just surprised. After a few seconds, he gasped, "How - how did you know?" shocking Miri.

David smiled a little, relieved. "As soon as I saw you, I knew. You don't just look like her; I saw her in your face."

Then the old man shook his head. "That's all I wanted to know; I don't know how or why, and I doubt you do either, but what it feels like, how you know she's there - that's your business.

"Now, what did you want to talk to me about?"

Arthur looked at him with wide eyes, his brain struggling to catch up with what was going on, but he comprehended enough to pull the photograph out of his pocket and show it to David.

David blinked and his shoulders straightened a little as he saw the smiling faces. The two heard him draw in a quick little breath. For a moment he didn't speak, just looked at the photo.

"Where did you find this?" he asked. His voice had gotten even quieter. He did not sound angry; on the contrary, he looked to be holding back a smile.

"Photo album," Arthur said. "We heard you were friends with this man, Mervin Eggleston, and wondered if you could tell us about him."

David chuckled. "Why am I even surprised? Of course you would want to know about Mervin . . ." He sighed. "Mervin's a mystery, and yet, at the same time, he's an open book. Always surprising you, while managing to be completely predictable. I met him when I was nineteen years old, and we've been good friends ever since. He taught me so much, and confused me so much too. But, I'm glad to say that I believe I annoyed him just as much as he exasperated me!"

David McCarthy smiled fondly. "Oh, he was such a good friend! To everyone! Loyal to the end; you know the type. And he was so different, as well. You know, he told me once that the reason he was such a great fan of Elvis was not because of his singing - although that was not bad - or his style - which was not to be laughed at - or anything like that, but because Elvis showed Mervin (and others, too!) that you can be great no matter what you're great at. He said that Elvis had showed him that you didn't need to rule a country to be a king."

Arthur and Miri blinked in confusion. David almost laughed, nodding. "Yes, that's what he said. You know that Elvis was called the King of Rock'N'Roll. He said that there were people out there that didn't have a drop of royal blood in their veins, but that they were still kings and queens because of what they did. Elvis was the king of the stage, he told me, and others were monarchs of art and science and good-will, rising up and holding a standard that others could see, setting an example. People that were great. People that did great things. He truly believed that, you know."

Arthur thought he understood what David meant. Mervin had believed in becoming the best you could be, no matter the circumstances. Well, he could respect that.

Miri spoke. "He sounds like a wonderful man," she said softly, her voice barely audible over the clamor around them.

David laughed wholeheartedly, and it echoed around the walls. "Quite right, Miriam! Sometimes I thought he must be something more than a man, even!"

The ex-politician put the photo back into Arthur's hands. "I don't know where Mervin is now," he said regretfully. "We don't communicate much. That may seem odd to you, but if you knew Mervin . . . well, you'll understand if you ever meet him. Last I heard, he was in the Mediterranean area, but I couldn't tell you if he was still there."

Slowly, David rose to his feet. "I have neglected my other guests for too long," he said, and held out his hand to both of them in turn. "Arthur, Miriam," he said, then winked conspicuously. "Don't be strangers now," and walked away.

Miri turned to her friend, grinning. "Well, I suppose we know a little more about the mysterious Mr. Eggleston!" she said. "Let's go find that grandson of David's again, I liked him . . ."

But as Miri pulled him through the crowd, Arthur could not shake the suspicion that something very important had been said in this interview . . . and that he had missed it.

* * *

><p><em>December<em>_, 2010_

He and Miri took David McCarthy at his word and visited often. Arthur sometimes felt like David was about to tell him that something else about Mervin that he had left out, but the man never did. Arthur wondered what it was . . . and felt at the same time that he already knew, which was strange.

All his searches, no matter how careful or discreet, turned up nothing on Mervin Eggleston. So Arthur was forced to move on with his life. After they had graduated, Miri tried to get him to go with her to Imperial College in London, but he decided to stay in Cardiff; he didn't want the commute. But something happened not long after his twentieth birthday that made him wish he had a good excuse to visit or even live in London.

When Regina McCarthy passed away, Arthur took the train to London to offer his condolences. Always the kind to avoid awkward emotional scenes, he might not have done it if Miri hadn't threatened to steal his collection of bottle caps and melt them down.

Besides, he told himself, David wasn't really the emotional type anyway, so there was little chance of there being an awkward scene.

The former politician met him in the library; Arthur had never seen him more tired.

"I'm almost glad she's gone," David said, his voice unusually subdued. "She suffered a lot, but now she's at rest, and that's all I can ask for."

Arthur nodded. He didn't know what to say. He wished the "My Mum' part of him, the part where he liked to think his mother still lived, would give him an idea, as it sometimes did.

"We weren't expecting her to last this long even," David continued. "But Gina took such good care of her . . . And I expect she'll want to stay and help me! Won't you, Gina?"

Arthur jumped a little, and turned to look behind him. He blinked a couple of times, and rose to his feet before he knew what he was doing.

A woman was standing in the doorway, the most lovely woman Arthur had ever set his eyes on. She looked rather exotic, with her dark skin and hair, but her eyes were deep and kind, and her mouth was smiling.

A hand clenched around Arthur's heart, squeezing it tightly. He couldn't breathe or move.

David placed a hand on Arthur shoulder. Arthur hadn't realized he had moved. "Gina, this is Arthur Peterson, you remember me telling you about him? Arthur, this is Gina Leonowens. She was Regina's nurse."

Gina's smile widened, and she held out her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Peterson," she said, and her voice was gentle.

Arthur wasn't sure how he was able to grasp the hand and shake it, let alone speak around the invisible hand that held him. "The pleasure's all mine," he replied, and was surprised at how natural he sounded. "Please, call me Arthur."

There must have been something in his voice that showed what he was feeling, for Gina's cheeks darkened a little more, and her eyes darted everywhere in a gesture he found oddly familiar.

_And __so __it __begins __again__,_ something under that slowly-releasing hand whispered.

* * *

><p><em>September<em>_, 2011_

"Arthur."

The voice startled him. He was sitting in the station waiting for the train that would take him to London to see Gina. He looked up, and found that the woman next to him was staring.

"Arthur," she said again, as if testing the name out.

Arthur blinked; he couldn't remember ever seeing this woman before. She was slim, almost unhealthily so, with dark hair and eyes and olive-colored skin.

"I'm sorry," he said, "do I know you?"

She blinked, then smiled slowly in a slightly creepy way. "No," she replied. "But I know you." She had an accent that he couldn't quite place. Russian? Turkish?

Arthur nodded, not really sure how to respond to that, so he didn't say anything. For a few minutes they sat in an awkward silence. She kept on glancing over at him with that unnerving little smile, and he was two seconds away from trying to talk to her anyway when she beat him to the punch.

"I've met Mervin," she said, as if relaying a dastardly secret.

He frowned. "Mervin?" he asked, not sure who she meant.

She nodded. "Mervin Eggleston. I knew him, many years ago. Worked with him in Greece."

Arthur's heart seemed to leap out of his chest. "Really?" Now he was interested. "When would this have been?"

She shrugged, still smiling. "Time has no meaning when you're me. Or Mervin, for that matter." She looked a little thoughtful. "Berenice might know. She'll be here soon. I can tell you it was after your mother's death, though." The woman's eyes softened slightly. "He was so unhappy about that, he just ran away and came to Greece. They were such good friends. I think he may have even fancied her a bit, whether he knew it or not." There was definitely a twinkle of amusement now. "Silly boy. I never told him I knew. It wouldn't have done any good."

Arthur had sat almost breathless throughout her speech, and now leaned forward. "Do you know where to find him?" he asked intently. "I've been looking for him for four years now, and no one's been able to tell me what happened to him after my mother died."

The Greek woman's brow furrowed. "Why do you want to find him so badly? He couldn't tell you anymore about your mother than your family could. Why do you want to find him?"

Arthur blinked. That was actually a very good question. Why did he want to meet Mervin Eggleston so much? His grandparents had known his mother longer. His father had known her better. What about that photograph was pushing him on so much? What would he gain from this?

"I . . . " he said, having no clue how he would finish that sentence.

He turned to look at the woman, and was astonished to see that she was almost laughing with delight. "_That_ is the answer I was looking for," she said, nodding. "It means you're just who you should be."

Arthur huffed slightly. Was he going to get nothing but riddles from this woman?

She laughed, then grabbed his sleeve. "Arthur, don't despair. The time is almost upon us for you to be reunited with Mervin. The circle is almost complete. Your time is coming, Arthur Peterson. Your task right now is to make sure you're ready for it when it comes."

A voice burst through the station. "Zoe!" Another woman was approaching them with confused eyes. She paused and beckoned to Arthur's companion. "The cab . . . "

"And . . . that's my ride," the woman said. "Just remember, you must be ready. We're all counting on you."

And then she was gone before Arthur could so much as call "Wait!"

* * *

><p><em>November<em>_, 2011_

On the eve of his twenty-first birthday, Miri called him a couple hours after dinner.

"Hey, Wart, come down to the pub and have a brew with me! I'm feeling lonely."

"Miri, I'd like to get a good night's sleep tonight-"

"Don't be a spoilsport!" she cried. "It's your birthday tomorrow, and you only turn twenty-one once! Trust me on that, Arthur. It'll be fun. All my friends have ditched! Come on!"

Arthur almost laughed at her half-drunk pleading, and replied, "Alright, be there soon."

The pub was only half a mile away, so Arthur just walked, shivering in the November weather. It was a beautiful night, and he looked upward, struggling to see the stars in the bright lights. They were so dim in the city.

Miri nearly strangled him when he got to his destination, latching onto his scarf and dragging him through the typical crowd to the bar. A depressed-looking woman sat contemplating her drink as Miri shoved Arthur next to her, then went to sit on her other side. Arthur thought the woman's hair might be red, but it was quite short and unkempt.

"Arthur, Sarah," Miri yelled over the noise, "Sarah, Arthur. Say hi, Arthur."

"Hi," Arthur muttered, already wishing he hadn't come. "How do you do. Can we go home now?"

Miri shook her head, yawning. "Jus' a sec. Sarah, tell Wartywartwart what you told me."

Sarah raised her eyes. They were startlingly blue, and Arthur stiffened, staring. There was something about those eyes . . .

Sarah spoke in a low, quiet way, but distinctly. "Like I was telling your friend here, Imperial College is the best in London."

Miri crowed. "See? Didn't I tell you?"

Arthur groaned. "Miriam . . . "

"No, don't Miriam me," she said, then shoved a newspaper at him. "Look: article about how awesome it is. Read it."

Rolling his eyes, Arthur grabbed the paper; there was no arguing with Miri, especially when she was drunk. Just to humor her, he pretended to read it while just glancing at the photos.

He gasped.

"I know, right!" Miri almost jumped with excitement. "See, I told you he would see it my way!"

"No, Miri, look!" Arthur shoved the paper at her, tapping frantically at one of the pictures. Confused, Miri squinted at the picture. Her eyes narrowed and her brow furrowed.

"What the . . . " she muttered, holding the paper closer. "It can't be."

"I know," Arthur replied. "But . . . it's so much like him."

She gaped. The photo was of two people: a woman and a young man, both with dark hair, sitting at a long table in what looked like a library, smiling at the camera across several books and papers. The caption read: _Martin __Evans__, __a__ 21-__year__-__old __tutor__, __assists __Jane __Hanson__, __a__ 44-__year__-__old __mother __returning __to __finish __her __degree __after__ 20 __years __away__._

Miri almost laughed. "He's gotta be his son." The resemblance was too perfect: black hair, piercing blue eyes, an angular face sharp enough to cut yourself on, a skinny, tall frame, and an enormous friendly smile that reached all the way to his eyes.

A snort interrupted them. "You talking about Martin the tutor?" Sarah was twisting around to look at the paper too.

"Yes," Arthur said, leaning forward slightly. "Do you know him?"

Sarah nodded. "Course. Everyone knows him. But if you're looking for his father, good luck. Martin's adopted, him and his whole family. None of them had parents until the Evans took them in."

Though his heart lurched a little in disappointment at this news, Arthur didn't allow this to get him down. "But still," he told them confidently, "it's a start."

The fact that Miri did not even express any doubts was a mark of how closely Martin Evans resembled Mervin Eggleston. Instead, she nodded vigorously. "Exactly. We'll find him." Her eyes twinkled. "Aren't you glad that I showed you that magazine now?"

He rolled his eyes and stood up. "We should be getting home," he told her firmly. "It's getting late. It was lovely to meet you Sarah," although it really wasn't; there was just something about the woman that resisted any liking. She didn't even answer.

As they left the pub, Miri suddenly grabbed Arthur's arm. "Arthur, do you sometimes feel like something's going to happen, like we're waltzing irrevocably to an enormous event sometime in the future? Do you feel like that?"

This was one of the reasons Arthur like Miri so much: he always felt like they were on the same page. "It's good to know that I'm not the only one going mad," he told her in relief. "But . . . are you sure that it's not going to be sooner than you think?"

Her face was unfathomable. "Perhaps it will be. But it makes me nervous; I already have enough trouble protecting you as it is!"

Arthur snorted. "What are you talking about? Protecting me? _Please__._ As if."

Miri laughed. "No, really!" she giggled (she was really quite drunk). "If you only knew how many times I've kept you safe-"

He patted her on the back in a patronizing manner. "Whatever you say, Miri," he told her, ignoring the lump that grew to fill his throat. "Whatever you say."

* * *

><p><em>Earlier <em>_that __same __day_

Mrs. Dempsey ran a small Bed & Breakfast right on the outskirts of London. For forty-three years she had watched people come and go, people of all sorts. Businessmen, artists, tourists, even a duke. But she was sure she had never witnessed anything quite as strange and suspicious as this.

Two days ago, a high school wrestling team from America had come to stay within her walls. Ten boys, with their "handlers" (as she privately thought of them), were here to compete against the best young wrestlers England had to offer. All she could say about the whole situation was, thank heavens they were gone most of the time.

But now something almost sinister was happening, not that she knew it as she crossed the dining room floor towards the team.

"Pardon me," she said, trying to speak politely over the babble. It took a few moments for anything resembling attention to be focused on her. "I have a letter here, for . . . " She peered at the words. " . . . a Mr. Timothy Percival, room number 8."

A well-muscled young man with fair hair raised his hand. "That's me."

She handed him the letter. "It's very strange, there's not return address, but I'm sure it was sent locally . . . "

Mrs. Dempsey had some subtlety; she didn't exactly look over his shoulder as he read it, and of course she could help but overhear what was being said.

"Who's it from, Tim?" one of the other boys asked. "Is it your _mom_?"

"Shut up," Timothy Percival said absently, as he read it. "Hmm, that's weird. It's just got a date and an address. It's not signed or anything." He resisted the attempts of his teammates to remove the piece of paper from his grasp and turned around. "Mrs., uh, Dempsey, do you know where this is?" He showed her the paper. It was plain copier paper, but the letters were not normal; it had definitely been done by a typewriter; she almost smiled at the Es. So out of place were they, 'November' looked like 'Novmebre'.

"That'd be on the other side of London, young man. You'd have to ask someone who lives over there for more information."

Mrs. Dempsey noted that the date was the next day. As she cleared away dirty plates, she reflected that it was strange, very strange indeed . . .

* * *

><p><em>The <em>_next __day_

When Arthur woke up the next morning, he thought, _I__'__m__ 21._ Then he thought, _Uh__-__oh__._

He wasn't precisely sure why, and that scared him.

His door banged open, and the next thing he knew, he was sitting at the edge of his bed, his heart pounding, ready for anything.

It was Ulric, his face beaming. "Happy birthday, son!"

Arthur could do nothing but stare; his body didn't seem to be working properly. The sight of his father seemed to have frozen him in place. Emotions he had never really learned how to deal with flooded him. His breath quickened, and his eyes shone.

Ulric seemed to realize something was wrong, because he placed a hand on his son's shoulder, his face concerned.

"Is something the matter, Arthur?" he asked, slightly awkward.

Arthur jumped a little at the well-known and, if he admitted it to himself, well-loved voice. The feelings, though not gone, had released their grip on him. "I'm fine, Father," he said, almost savoring the word, as if he had not said it in a thousand years. "Still a little sleepy, I think."

For a moment, Arthur thought he saw something in his father's eyes, a dim remembering of times long past. But it was gone, and Ulric was his usual regal self.

"Well then, breakfast is in half an hour. You must keep a schedule even on your birthday."

Arthur escaped the house as soon as possible, but no sooner had he begun scampering towards his car when his phone rang. He fumbled to answer it. "Hello?"

It was Gina. "Happy birthday, Arthur!"

Something inside Arthur clenched at the sound of her, and a little voice whispered, _I __never __even __got __to __say __goodbye__. _He shook this weirdness off and responded in kind.

"Are we still on for tonight?" she asked.

"Do you even need to ask? Anything to see your lovely face, Gwen."

There was a moment of silence on her end of the line, and he wondered if he had said something wrong. Finally she spoke, "Have you been speaking with Martin?"

It took him a moment to remember that Martin was one of Gina's London friends. "Er . . . no . . . Why?"

"Because he called me Gwen once, too."

Arthur blinked, then realized she was right. "Oh. Sorry, I don't know what I was thinking. Why'd I call you that?"

She laughed fondly. "Maybe Arthur and Guinevere, eh?"

Tears pricked in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. What was wrong with him today? "Heh, probably. Listen, Gina, I have to go. I was going to visit David today, I haven't seen him in a while."

"Oh lovely! He hasn't had many visitors, I'm sure he would like that. I'll see you tonight, Arthur."

After he had hung up, Arthur simply stood looking out over the street for several more minutes, confused. Ever since he had woken up, something had been . . . off. He'd called Gina Gwen, he'd almost cried when he saw his father, the very thought of calling Miri to tell her of his woes filled him with terrible sadness, and why why why _why_ couldn't he get stupid Mervin Eggleston out of his head?

"I'm going mad," he decided, and got into the car.

Miri hadn't called to wish him happy birthday (just as well, he thought; those conversations usually ended with him feeling horribly old and wrinkly), and he drove with a bad feeling, like there was a target painted on his head. All the way to London, he couldn't help but watch constantly, scanning for some threat that wasn't there . . . or maybe it was, how could he know?

It turned out that David was in the hospital. He'd fallen and was under observation.

"Just for the night, now!" David said cheerfully. "I'll be out before you know it, they just want to make sure I'm alright. But never mind that . . . happy birthday, Arthur!"

Arthur smiled back; David's loud and sunny manner always managed to make him feel better, no matter what his previous mood. But he refused to be diverted.

"Why did no one tell me about this?" he demanded. "That's not like Gina, she would have-"

He stopped short at the rather guilty and furtive look on David's face. "Er, well," said the older man, "I told Gina _I_ was going to tell you, and you know her, she doesn't believe anyone would lie to her." Arthur raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but David beat him to the punch. "I know what you're thinking. It's just . . . you've been so worried lately, Arthur. Gina can tell, I can tell. Miri's mentioned it."

Arthur looked that David sharply. "And now I'm worried even more, now that I know you're a _liar_."

David flinched a little at this accusation, looking guilty, but Arthur didn't let his own remorse stop him for fixing David with a gimlet eye.

"And what, pray tell, have Gina and Miri told you about the why I'm worrying?"

David's eyes narrowed a little in thought and his forehead scrunched. "To tell you the truth, Arthur, I think they're worried too, and not just about you. There's something in the air, m'boy, something that's different."

"Something bad?" Arthur asked quickly; he'd learned that David had very good instincts.

"No, I wouldn't say bad," David replied slowly. "But there's change coming, Arthur, change coming for you and all the world. Change can be better or for worse; we'll just have to wait and see. But I fear that . . ."

He didn't finish, and Arthur prompted him a little. "That?"

". . . that you'll change. You're a good man, Arthur, and I almost think that you're going to turn into someone no one would recognize after this change comes."

David suddenly leaned forward and grasped Arthur's hands in his own. "Arthur, I don't know what's going to happen, but I have to believe it's for the best. I've seen many strange things in my lifetime, horrible fates and ridiculous miracles, but this, this is something else entirely! This is something life-changing, no . . . something world-changing, and you're going to be at the heart of it! What you must ask yourself now is, will you be ready for it when it comes? Are those around you prepared?"

Arthur stared into the dark, earnest eyes, and realized that he did, in fact, have an answer.

"Yes," he said, somewhat surprised. "I will be ready. Because you know what? I won't be alone. There'll be others, and not just Gina or - Miri-" (this name he had to force out like it didn't want to come.) "-but ones that also are ready for it."

Inexplicably, the faces of Mervin Eggleston and Martin Evans swam to the forefront of his mind, and then another, so like them, but so different as well. Arthur didn't understand; he didn't understand anything anymore. His head was starting to ache, his thoughts were starting to swirl, and all he wanted to do was get out of this hospital and find a nice quiet spot to rest - which wasn't like him at all, granted.

David watched him, and Arthur had the mad idea that David knew exactly what he was thinking, like he could read minds or something. But that couldn't be true.

Could it be?

David drew away, his face unfathomable. "You are troubled again, Arthur; you must go and collect your thoughts. When the time comes when your troubles are at their worst, never forget that David McCarthy, though old, is not beaten yet, and will come to you in your time of desperate need, if you will but ask."

There was something strangely formal in the way he spoke, like he was speaking to a king or something. Arthur shook off these egotistical thoughts and rose to his feet.

"Thank you, David McCarthy," he replied in the same way, though he could now barely talk around the pain in his head. "I will not forget what you have done for me."

In the hall, he blundered along, barely aware of his surroundings. He would not have been surprised if he destroyed several objects crashing down the corridor. But Arthur was so confused, too confused for any rational thought, and he needed peace and quiet.

The strangeness that had been molesting him since the moment of his awakening seemed to thicken, and his head pounded with it. A flash of memory - _blue __eyes__, __narrowed __with __concentration __and __pain__, __and __a __voice__, __saying __matter__-__of__-__factly__, "__Yasmin __Debufort__." _- but it can't have been a memory because he had never met Mervin Eggleston before! Any thought that he had must be a trick of his imagination, something in him wanting to meet someone that had known his mother and was willing to talk of her. But oh, he knew that blinding smile like it was his own! And what of the visions of Gina (_Gwen__?_) in lavender silk, smiling shyly at him over a red rose, of Miri with dark, hate-filled eyes and smirking lips (_Was __that __a __crown __on __her __forehead__?_), his father watching the smoke-filled air impassively, what of them? He didn't understand it at all, it was making his head spin horribly as he all but staggered down the corridor.

So caught up was he with the inside of his own head that he didn't notice the woman before it was too late. He plowed into her and sent her papers flying.

"Sorry," he muttered automatically, bending to help pick them up, still not seeing anything.

There was a gasp, and he looked at the girl he had bumped into. She was shorter than him, with long, curly golden hair and blue eyes. Her eyes widened, then narrowed in confusion. "Arthur?" she queried, her voice disbelieving.

He also gaped. "_Vivian_?"

"**Strangers ****from ****the ****realm ****of ****light ****who ****have ****forgotten ****all****; / ****The ****memory ****of ****their ****former ****life****, ****the ****purpose ****of ****their ****call****! / ****And ****so ****they ****must ****learn ****why ****they****'****re ****here ****and ****who ****they ****really ****are****, / ****They ****must ****learn ****why ****they****'****re ****here ****and ****who ****they ****are****!"**

**-****Lex ****de ****Azevedo**

* * *

><p>And it begins . . .<p>

Until next time!


	15. FINIS 1

AN: I decided to post this today, since I won't be able to on Friday. Enjoy.

Changes: Nothing much.

* * *

><p>Finis 1<p>

**In ****Which ****We ****Not ****Only ****Hear ****Sage ****Advice ****From ****a ****Bollywood ****Movie**** . . . **

_November__ 16__th__, 2011_

The Leals lived in an apartment about a five minute walk away from the Peterson building, so Rupert had no problems getting to work, but he had to be there a few minutes before Peterson Sr., otherwise there would be trouble.

Today, he was cutting it a little. He'd woken up with a headache and was still a little groggy, so he had to run through the shower, inhale his breakfast, kiss his wife hurriedly, and he only had time to ruffle his daughter's hair before going out the door.

When he reached the first floor landing, he finally looked up from adjusting his tie, and caught sight of who was before him. The dark hair and blue eyes were immediately recognizable, even if it took Rupert a few seconds to remember the name.

He gaped. "It can't be . . ."

The young man stepped closer, smirking a little. "Good morning, Leon."

* * *

><p>As he knotted his tie, Martin gave Divina last minute instructions.<p>

". . . and Lindy has a dentist appointment tomorrow, remind her, will you? And, um, Anne needs to return this salt to Mrs. Silvestri. What else, what else, what else?"

Divina had never seen her brother so distracted; he kept on dropping and tripping over things, he hadn't combed his hair yet, and she could see his hands were shaking. She caught the teapot before it smashed on the floor, placed it quickly on the counter, and encased Martin's fingers in her own.

"What's the matter?" she asked, cutting smoothly into his apology. "You're not yourself this morning, you're being even more of an idiot than usual. Please tell me what's wrong."

Martin looked anywhere but her, and his hands squirmed. "It's complicated," he said slowly, "but maybe you could understand. Do you feel, as I do, that things are happening? Important, monumental things?"

Divina considered his words for a moment, her head tilted slightly to one side. "I am not a Seer, as you are, but I have felt . . . magic stirring, and shifting, as if waiting. Is that what you meant?"

Martin nodded, looking relieved. He pulled his hands out of hers and stepped away. "I haven't Seen anything of it. It's like . . . there's something I'm not supposed to see. And it makes me nervous. I know it's what most people do, but I really don't like going blind into probable danger."

Divina thought she understood, to some degree, how he felt, despite not having the Sight. She patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it," she told him. "We'll get through it. Together."

He raised an eyebrow - it was strange to be reassured by Divina of all people - but then he smiled and hugged her.

"I'll be late if I don't hurry," he said, and slipped away. Divina watched him go; worry filled her.

Anne didn't have work until nine, so she always woke after Martin was gone. She came into the kitchen showered, her uniform on, hair in a tight ponytail, ready to go.

"Morning, Divina," she said brightly.

There was something falsely cheery about her manner, which Divina knew meant something was bothering her. So, she and Martin were not the only ones to sense danger. But she only replied in kind.

Soon after, Anne left for work, bearing her bag with the salt. Divina looked at her watch. She considered calling her employers and telling them she couldn't come in, but decided even the possible end of the world should not interrupt her routine. She readied herself for her day in relative silence; Melinda had no work that day, and in all likelihood would not arise for several hours.

She had just finished applying her makeup when the front door _bang_ed open. Rushing into the room to see what was the matter, she collided with Anne, who was running headlong into the house like the devil was after her.

"Anne, what-" she began, but stopped, because she had seen the girl's distressed face.

It was not Anne that stood in front of her, but someone Divina knew she had seen long ago, before she could even comprehend.

It took a second to remember where.

Anne - or whoever - was talking incomprehensibly. "-he was _there_, Nimueh, and he recognized me, I panicked, I couldn't help it, he knew who I was! But that's impossible, how could he have known-"

The woman that was, or perhaps had been, Divina Evans cut in. "Who, Vivian? Who was it that knew you?"

Vivian (for that was indeed who it was) turned fearful eyes on her sister, and said in trembling tones, "It was Arthur, Nimueh. He was at the hospital, and he recognized me as Vivian."

There was no change in Nimueh's expression; she was not surprised. Trust Arthur to be in a hospital, visiting the sick like he cared about them! Anger filled her heart, as it had for so many years, the rage that had consumed her.

"Then we will go there," she said coldly, "and finish the work that we started so long ago." She looked at Vivian sharply. "Are you with me, Vivian?"

Vivian hesitated, but was spared from answering by the arrival of Melinda, who came in sandy-eyed and yawning.

"Divina? Anne? I heard a noise and came to see what was the matter."

Then, the same fate overtook her as well, when she saw the faces of her two sisters. In moment, Melinda was gone, and Niniane had taken her place.

* * *

><p>Arthur and Gina found each other as soon as was possible, the latter almost in tears. For a moment, neither said anything. Perhaps they couldn't, so glad were they to see each other again.<p>

At long last, Gina pulled back. "What are we going to do now?" she asked.

Arthur hesitated. "I suppose we look for the others. Leon, I know where to find him . . . but Gina, it's Merlin. He was around, but I don't know where to find him, he was friends with my mother-"

Gina shushed him. "I know where to find Merlin," she said, and her eyes were brimming with tears, happy ones. "Remember my friend Martin? The one that helped me and Luis?"

Arthur gulped. "Martin Evans."

She nodded. "That's right. But it's not just him, Arthur; his sisters-"

Her phone rang, interrupting what she was about to say. Her eyes widened when she saw who it was. "It's Luis, I mean Lancelot," she whispered, and answered.

Arthur was on tenterhooks, listening to half of the conversation.

"Luis! Yes, I know who you are, I'm with Arthur right now . . . Yes, I know! . . . A letter? No, why? . . . That's odd. You say Aaron got one too? . . . Where? . . . Graystone Hall?" She looked at Arthur. "Does that sound familiar? Graystone Hall?"

"I think it's right outside London," Arthur recalled. "My father showed it to me once, I don't remember why."

"Right outside London," Gina told Luis. "You're not actually thinking of going there? You don't know who sent that letter! . . . You think so? Well, I suppose you could be right . . . We'll meet you there, yeah? Don't do anything stupid!"

She hung up, looking worried. At Arthur's questioning look, she explained: "Lancelot and Elyan both received strange letters in the mail yesterday, telling them to go to a certain place today: Graystone Hall. No return address, they're not signed." She hesitated a moment before continuing on hurriedly. "Luis thinks that Merlin sent them."

* * *

><p>Greystone Hall stood about ten miles out of London, on a lonely, weed-stricken hill surrounded by fields. It had been built, Glen discovered, during the Industrial Revolution by a businessman that wanted somewhere really old-fashioned and grand to live in. The businessman, named Andrew Croydan, had died shortly after construction was finished, and, due the rumors of ghosts and strange happenings in its halls, the building was abandoned. It looked it too, with the somber stone that had given it its name, and the dark windows, most of which were broken.<p>

Glen watched it warily, then glanced down at the letter. The address was right, though he had hoped it would not be. He sighed, and wondered what lay behind the ivy-covered walls.

He'd tried to call Martin, after his other memories had come back to him, but no one had answered the phone, and he didn't have their address. So he had come to the address in the letter, knowing that it had something to do with everything that was happening, but not sure exactly how.

He sighed. "Out of the frying pan, and into the fire, then," he muttered, and headed for what he thought might be a door in the wall.

The house smelled of dust, and Glen tried not to sneeze. He had the feeling that someone else was there. He listened, and heard soft footsteps moving upstairs. Glen moved towards the staircase, and went up.

The person was in a side room off of one of the hallways. The door was open a crack, and Glen crept closer, hoping to see the person before they saw him. But, just as he'd gotten near, the steps drew nearer and the door was flung open.

Glen found himself face-to-face with a tall young man that he knew very well.

"Percival!" he cried, grinning.

Percival blinked. "Gwaine?"

They laughed and hugged each other tightly, both glad to see a familiar face in the midst of confusion and gloom.

"It is good to see you," Percival said fervently. "I was afraid I would never find anyone else from . . . well, before."

Glen frowned. "Percy, is that an American accent I hear?"

Percival shrugged. "Texan, technically, but I suppose it amounts to the same thing. So, what name do you have this time around?"

"Glen Kelly. And you?"

"Funnily enough, Timothy Percival."

"No way."

"Yeah way."

"That's not fair. Why didn't I get to keep my name?" Glen then shot him a strange look. "And I suppose you'd prefer to be called Timothy?"

The young man barked out a short laugh. "You too?"

Glen nodded. "It's weird, isn't it? I _feel_ like Gwaine, but I'm not him anymore. Now I'm Glen." Glen hesitated. "Does that make any sense at all?"

Timothy smiled at him. "I completely understand. I feel the same way. I'm still Percival - or, at least, I'm _a_ Percival - but I'm different. Different memories. Different upbringing. It's almost like having a split personality."

Glen chuckled. "Perfect way to describe it, Percival. Couldn't have done it better myself."

* * *

><p>Ulric's secretary gave him the phone. "It's Mr. Leal, sir," she said.<p>

Ulric took it impatiently. "Good. Perhaps he can explain his absence."

Once on the phone with his employee, the man demanded to know the meaning of what had happened. But it was not Rupert Leal that answered. A much younger male voice, with a soft Northern accent, spoke.

"Am I speaking with Ulric Peterson?"

Ulric was immediately on the alert. His secretary was infalliable; she would have recognized Rupert's voice. "Who is this?" he said curtly. "Where is Mr. Leal?"

"Oh, he's right here," the man on the other end replied, "but I'm afraid he's not in a fit state to be talking. I will be speaking."

Foreboding filled Ulric's heart. As much as he would have admitted it in public, he had grown rather fond of his faithful bodyguard. "What do you want?"

He could tell the other was smiling. "Ah, so you don't know. Oh well, nothing's perfect. But it doesn't really matter in the end."

Anger was now warring with the fear. "And what, may I ask, is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Because this is going to turn out one of two ways, depending on what your side does. I want you to deliver a message to your son Arthur. Tell him to come and face me, if he's a man. I'm sure that pet dog of his will tell him where to find me. If he isn't here by sunset tonight . . . well, then what happens to Rupert Leal is _their_fault."

The dialtone was now the only thing Ulric Peterson could hear.

* * *

><p>When Arthur and Gina reached Graystone Hall, four men stood outside the towering mansion, waiting for them. Glen grabbed Gina the second she stepped out of the car and almost throttled her, then proceeded more sedately to Arthur and gave him a 'man-hug'.<p>

"So, what's going on here, do we know?" Arthur asked when all the greetings and introductions were out of the way.

Glen and Aaron, both of whom had researched the hall extensively, offered all they knew about it. They could think of no reason why they were called there; it was an abandoned building. The descendants of the businessman still owned it, but no one lived there.

"We've only explored a little bit, but it seems very empty," Timothy Percival said.

Luis hesitated. "Actually, I did a little bit of digging on my own, and I did find something."

Out of his pocket, he drew a photograph. "This is a picture of Andrew Croydan's last living descendant, Mitchell Croydan. He lives in Durham, and actually works for a branch of your father's company, Arthur."

He held the photograph out, and Arthur took it. Everyone leaned in to see.

The resemblance was undoubtable. It was the man that had killed Arthur.

"Mordred," Arthur said. He was suddenly glad that he had managed to return the favor before dying.

Gina looked at the house. "So this house belongs to Mordred?" she asked nervously, as if expecting it to attack. "And you still think that Merlin sent you those letters?"

Luis shrugged helplessly. "Unless Mordred somehow remembered before the appointed time, I don't see any other explanation! Glen says that Merlin definitely remembers everything-"

Glen nodded. "He's immortal, why would he have forgotten? And looking back, it's obvious that he knew who I was the whole time. Though that makes me wonder why he let me live . . ."

The others looked confused. "Why's that?" Timothy said, expecting a humorous explanation.

Glen shrugged. "I dated two of his sisters, and broke their hearts. He wasn't terribly happy."

There was something very dramatic about the way he said that, but the effect was ruined by Gina gasping. "I'd forgotten!" she cried. "His sisters!"

* * *

><p>Ulric decided right away that he wasn't even going to tell Arthur that Rupert was missing; it would only worry him, and he would end up doing something stupid. Instead, he got on the phone with his personal private detective, R. Giry. R had been working for Ulric for almost forty years, and he trusted the man with, well, <em>almost<em> anything, including his life, and certainly Rupert Leal's life.

R had had no knowledge of Rupert's kidnapping by an unknown person, but assured Ulric that Mrs. Leal didn't know either, after a little digging. He promised to get some information to him as soon as possible.

"Don't worry, Ulric," R said in his deep reassuring voice. "If Rupert can be found, I will find him. Trust me."

Ulric did trust him, but only replied curtly and hung up.

Slowly, thinking dark thoughts, he wandered out of his office and into the main anteroom outside it. There, his secretary read his face and became very busy, hoping he wouldn't notice her. Ulric went over to Rupert's desk and stood by it for a few moments, looking out the window at the Cardiff skyline, but not really seeing it.

He sighed and dropped his eyes. What R had said was right: if his bodyguard could be found, R would find him. But who would want to kidnap him in the first place, and what did they want with Arthur? R hadn't known, and neither did Ulric.

He had been looking down at a piece of paper on Rupert's desk for the last five minutes without seeing it, and when he finally did, he snatched up and stared at it like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. His mouth gaped. It couldn't be . . .

Still carrying the paper in his hand, he ran back into his office and slammed the door, almost scaring his secretary out of her wits. He grabbed the phone and punched in R's number again.

"R, where is he?" he demanded without preamble. "Tell me where The Subject is!"

* * *

><p>There was something comforting about the woods, Miriam thought. Maybe it was the chirping birds, or the swaying branches, the absence of disturbing noise. It was a good place to think.<p>

And think she must.

It wasn't everyday that you discovered the man you had grown up with was, in fact, your worst enemy. But it seemed like that had happened to her at least twice. Or she remembered it happening to her twice. Something.

Miri wasn't sure what to think anymore. She wanted someone to talk to, ideally Arthur, but that wasn't really an option for her anymore. She wished she knew where Morgause was. Oh, how she missed her sister! Morgause had always made things so simple for her, made the path of right and wrong so easy to choose between. But now her thoughts were all jumbled together and unmanageable. Once again, Arthur had scared all rational thought out of her.

A twig cracked nearby, and she jumped, then peered closely into the thick trees. Something moved close by, something an unnatural color . . .

"Come out where I can see you!" she cried. "I'm warning you, I know kung fu!"

It was not an idle threat, but as the person stepped into her view, she wished she had not said anything.

Merlin raised a sardonic eyebrow. "What a coincidence," he said, grinning. "So do I."

Miri stared at him with an open mouth, unable to get around the fact that he was standing before her, alive, unmarked, and smiling as if they had not tried to kill each other even once.

"You?" she finally managed to gasp. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"A couple of reasons, actually," he said, much more candidly than the old Merlin would have. "Looking for you is one of them."

"You knew I would be here?"

"I had an idea. These are the woods that once housed Camelot, and that now hide its remains."

Her lips thinned. "So, what do you want? Are you going to try and get me on your side, as you once did?"

Merlin pursed his lips and tilted his head to one side. "Actually, I thought I might talk to you. You're probably very confused right now, and you might have some questions. Undoubtedly you'll be wanting someone you can vent to. Consider me something you can bounce your thoughts off of."

With that he sat down on a handy log and waited.

Miri glared. Her hated enemy, the Emrys, Merlin, the blasted immortal warlock, sat before her, cool as a cucumber, and seemingly just as inclined to fear her wrath.

"That curse you put on me," she said, the words stumbling out. "You knew what it would do? You cursed me to protect Arthur, and so I have, for the last twenty-one years! Are you happy?"

Merlin smiled sadly. "You've kept my best friend alive so that he can fulfil his destiny," he told her. "For that, I will be eternally grateful, not matter what comes after this meeting."

She nodded, unsurprised. Her fierce anger had cooled a little at his meek reply, and she looked at him again. "Have you been living here this whole time?" she asked. "Waiting for Arthur?"

"Not in Britain, no," Merlin answered. "I've moved around quite a bit: America, India, Russia, Chile, Germany, even Antarctica for a little while. I've become a bit of a world traveler. I can't stay in one place for too long, otherwise the natives start to, erm, suspect things about me, you know? I mean, if you haven't noticed, I don't exactly age."

Miri raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you the most powerful warlock ever? Can't you make it _look_ like you age?"

He shrugged, grinning a little. "Tried that a few times," he said. "Ever so dull. This way's more fun; it means I have an excuse to see every nook and cranny of the planet."

"You haven't tried different planets yet?" she asked sarcastically.

"I would, but I terribly afraid of decompression." Here he looked a little sheepish.

Miri suddenly caught a glimpse of the kind of life he must have led for the past fifteen hundred years. Despite his happy face, she caught a glimpse of a lonely man that went from place to place, never able to stay for long because of the consequences.

"The Fates have not been kind to you," she said, and he nodded, dropping any act of cheerfulness.

"Someone had to prepare the way for Arthur," he said. "I think of it like . . . well, it's like in the Bible: for the world to be saved, someone had to suffer. And why not me? Whenever things get dark, I just tell myself, 'If it's not a happy ending, it's not the end. The picture isn't over yet, the film is still going. There's still time.'" He laughed bitterly. "Literally: with me, there's no _end_ of time."

This sounded like a vaguely depressing maxim to Miri, but then, she wondered that he had found anything at all cheerful to hang onto through the unending march of time. For all the he had changed over the years, he was still, irrevocably, Merlin.

"But enough about me!" he suddenly cried, making her jump yet again. "Let's talk about you."

His gaze was piercing, and she glared. "Don't try and pretend you don't know everything there is to know about me," she snapped. "I'll bet you've been watching me and Arthur since we were in diapers!"

Merlin hesitated. "Well, in a manner of speaking," he said slowly. "I've been keeping tabs on all of the reincarnations. Would you expect anything less from me?"

She had to admit the answer was no. "But although I do know a bit about you," he continued, "it doesn't mean I know how you're going to react. You have two sets of memories inside of your head, one of being Morgana, and other of being Miriam. They're conflicting, but that the same time, strangely harmonious, am I right?" She nodded. "The choice of what to do is entirely up to you, Miriam. You can allow the memories of Morgana to completely overcome you until Miriam Caswell is swept away in the flood. Or you can allow the opposite to happen. Or, taking both of those sets of memories, you can draw a conclusion from them, and not cast aside either. You can find Morgause and stand at her side once more. Or you can find Arthur and offer him your lifelong friendship. Or, (though I really cannot see you doing this one) you can just . . . walk away. Have nothing to do with any of this. Be Miriam Caswell and no one else. Perhaps even forget what transpired today and all those hundreds of years ago."

Merlin stood up and watched her face closely. "What do you choose?"

Miri turned away, wanting to feel angry, but not quite succeeding. She didn't want to think of any of it, of betraying either of her half-siblings (though, the thought came to her, it was unlikely that either of them were related to her by blood this time around . . . or was it?) She cast around for another subject.

"Why are you here, anyway?" she asked curiously. "Well, I know this is fairly near what used to be Camelot-" she waved her hand vaguely in the general direction of the ruins. "-but this is the middle of the forest!"

Merlin gave her a funny look, and smiled. "Have you forgotten?" Her brow scrunched, and he beckoned. "Let me refresh your memory."

He stepped away, deeper into the impenetrable foliage, and Miri was stuck with an impossible choice. This he knew, and she felt a stab of annoyance. What should she do, give up the obsession of her former life (_you __will __kill __Arthur __Pendragon_, she had whispered into his ear), give up all the lessons her sister had ever taught her, give up everything she had worked so hard for, including the throne, or follow Merlin and save her brother.

In the end, it wasn't as impossible as she thought it would be. Once, she had been Morgana Pendragon, stubborn, prideful, malicious, hungering for power. But now she realized she had changed from that cold-hearted woman, and become . . . more. Had it been the fact she'd been raised by two parents who loved her? Had it been the increased friendship between her and Arthur? Or had it just been an unconscious desire to to make right what she had previously made wrong? She didn't know.

Of course, as she started after the dark-haired "young" man, doubts still filled her mind, but she realized they probably always would, and really, now was not the time to be questioning her decision, especially since she knew that this was the path she must follow.

"Where are you taking me?" Merlin simply smiled, and pointed.

Up ahead, something was glittering. Her breath caught in her throat.

They came out on a silent lakeshore. The waters rippled slightly in the chill breeze, but there was a sweet scent all around them. An unusual mist floated mysteriously over the depths. Morgana sighed in amazement. "The Lake of Avalon," she whispered. She had only visited the famed lake a few times in her previous life, but it was hard to forget.

Merlin smiled wider. "Exactly. I had another reason coming here, other than finding you; Avalon had been closed for long enough. I'm here to open it."

Miri raised her eyebrows in surprise. "But didn't Gaheris himself close it? He's the King, would even you have the power to override his command?"

Merlin shrugged. "Probably," he replied, then added, "If you help me."

The witch snorted, easily regaining her dignity. "Of course. I should have known you wanted something from me." But when the warlock shrugged sheepishly, she couldn't help but grin. "You've been planning this whole thing for a long time, haven't you?"

Merlin nodded, but his face darkened slightly. "Not the whole thing. There are still a few variables that I don't know about, and I'm not sure if I _want_ to know about them, you know? Anyway, let's get cracking!"

Very slowly and carefully, he told her spell needed to open the gate, and they closed their eyes, focusing. Morgana's magic came quicker and easier than she expected, almost throwing her off guard, but it was like riding a bicycle: very hard to forget. Together, they concentrated the magic on the portal deep within the lake, feeling the doors creak and tremble under the power. _Just __a __little __more__, __just __a __little __more_, she found herself thinking, and she was right; the gate suddenly caved with a visible rush of bubbles to the surface.

For a moment, they both stood there, not quite sure what to do or say, then the water rippled, and a hand broke the surface, clothed in purple silk, bearing aloft the shimmering, golden, beautiful, absolutely perfect Excalibur.

"Ooooh . . . " Miri groaned. "You know what, if being king means he gets that sword, I think Arthur's going to have to go through me first."

Her companion snickered. "Well, I'm glad to see you're getting your sense of humor back," he commented.

* * *

><p>In one of the rooms at Graystone Hall, Glen found a rack of old-fashioned swords. Gina watched with amusement as the Knights tested them out.<p>

"These are good swords," Luis said, looking impressed. "And none the worse for wear, even sitting here for who knows how long." He turned to Arthur who was watching them with a slightly hangdog expression; the other knew he was thinking of Excalibur. "Arthur, did you manage to get in touch with Leon?"

Arthur started out of his revery. "No, he's not a home or in the office. Janet said he didn't come in this morning, she thinks he's probably ill."

Gina looked away from turning over Aaron's sword. "Ill?" she said, worry scrunching her brow. "That's not like him. If he remembered-"

"He'd be here even if his appendix had just burst open," Glen finished. "I agree, something's not right here."

"But what to do about it?" Arthur asked. "I don't know where he would be. Maybe he got to work late or something, and she just hasn't seen him yet. Maybe . . . maybe he didn't get a letter."

The group took a moment to ponder, then Arthur said, "I'm going to call my father. If anyone were to know where Leon was, he would be the one to know."

No sooner had he taken the phone out of his pocket, when there came the unmistakable sound of the front door opening. The dust of the floor stirred restlessly, and everyone turned.

"Maybe that's him here now?" Glen suggested, and they all went for the stairs at the same time.

It was not Leon. A woman stood in the shadows of the hall, her long dark hair blowing in an unfelt breeze, her dress pooling at her feet. The group stopped at the sight of her. It was none other than the Lady of the Lake, and clutched in her hands was-

"Excalibur," Arthur breathed. The word was like a caress.

Freya's lips turned up a little at this, and she stepped closer. "Arthur Pendragon," she began formally, "too long have this hilt and your hand been parted. Take it from me now, for there will be much need to it soon." Glen thought she was enjoying her role of dramatic sword-bearer a little much; her expression was half-respect, half-laughter.

Arthur took the sword willingly, he gaze reverent. "You mean . . . Mordred?"

Freya nodded, her face serious again. "Indeed, but not just him; the Gates of Avalon have been opened once more, and the Unseelie Court rides at your enemies' command. My lord Merlin, of course, stands at his cousin's side, leading the Seelie to your aid, but I'm not sure when they're coming. You must be ready. All that is evil is coming from Avalon tonight."

Her listeners had perked up at the mention of Merlin, but even that did not entirely lighten their mood. They were only six, and who knew how many of the Unseelie were coming.

A sound from the left caught their attentions. Another figure was coming out of the dark and dank, this time with more modern clothes.

"You won't be doing this alone, you know," the voice said. "We're here to help you."

And out of the shadows stepped Divina.

"**By ****Pendragon****'****s ****sword ****the ****Dark ****shall ****fall****." **

**-****Susan ****Cooper**

* * *

><p>To be continued . . .<p>

I'll probably post the second half tomorrow. If not, it'll be up Monday or Tuesday.

Please review!


	16. FINIS 2

AN: First part of the title: In Which We Not Only Hear Sage Advice From a Bollywood Movie . . .

Changes: Few.

* * *

><p>Finis 2<p>

**. . . And Almost Witness History Repeat Itself . . .**

_Previously on TSA: _

"_You won't be doing this alone, you know," the voice said. "We're here to help you."_

_And out of the shadows stepped Divina._

* * *

><p>"So, what made you change your minds?" Gina asked kindly.<p>

The three sisters stood before them, nervous and uncomfortable. There had been many explanations after Divina had come forward, telling the King, Queen, and Knights what had happened after Arthur and Anne's impromptu meeting. It reminded Divina painfully of the time when Merlin's uncle had threatened Camelot and she'd offered her help.

Divina hesitated, then plowed forward. "It was Melinda," she said, giving her shortest sister an almost proud look. "She was the last to remember, and the first to realize that what we were doing was wrong. She brought us to our senses."

"And here I thought you didn't have any sense at all," Glen said, shaking his head. "Obviously I was wrong."

Melinda, turning as red as her hair, shook her head vigorously. "No, you were right; I've never had any sense, but at least in this life I know what is due to my family and friends. Merlin is not just my cousin anymore, now he's my brother, and I certainly hope I've treated him better than the last brother I had."

At this, Anne shuffled her feet guiltily, obviously remembering how she herself had mistreated that same man.

"We realized that Merlin, in taking us in as children, probably wanted us to come to this same conclusion," said Divina, "but he left us alone today, leaving us to make the choice of our own free will. I don't think he knew if we were going to choose him or Mordred."

They all took a few moments to think about this statement. Arthur shook his head to clear it of unpleasant thoughts, and said: "Well, I'm glad you're here in any case. Lady Freya has just informed us that two armies are making their way here, the two courts of Avalon. Now that we have three sorceresses on our side, this should be easier."

"And Merlin?" Anne said hopefully.

"With Gaheris," Arthur told her. "We just need to find a way to hold the Unseelie off until they get here, then it should be easy as pie."

Freya stepped forward. She had been standing quietly against the wall for some time now. "Might I give a suggestion?" she said, then pointed down a narrow hallway behind the staircase. "That leads to the ballroom. You can bottleneck them in that corridor, and pick them off one by one."

Arthur squinted at it. "You sure they won't try and come at us from behind?"

She shrugged. "If so, there's another narrow hallway on the other side. Most of them aren't going to be smart enough to figure out how to overcome you."

Melinda stepped forward. "Question: won't they be coming after Anne?"

Anne gasped. "You're right! I forgot to give them what I promised, now they'll want revenge! Besides . . . oh, besides, Merlin said that they would follow me, remember? And they have! For years, when I was a child, and even when I was older, I've seen them, they've haunted my sleep and watched me even when I was awake! How could I have been so stupid—"

"In the orphanage!" Melinda cried. "Those nightmares you would have!"

"Oh yeah . . ." said Divina with dawning comprehension. "So, it's Anne they're going to come after specifically. Listen, I could put some sort of spell on the corridors, draw them that way. You lot can stay behind and make sure the Unseelie don't come that way."

She looked so sure of herself, and Arthur, remembering the things that Nimueh could do, nodded. "Great. But we can-"

He stopped short as his phone rang. The whole group went silent in anticipation as he answered.

Arthur only said hello, then he just listened with an ever-darkening expression. Eventually, he put the phone back in his pocket, and looked around.

"That was Mordred," he said, ignoring the gasps. "He's outside, and wants to talk to me." Arthur looked around at them all with a rather despairing expression. "He's got Leon."

* * *

><p>Miri decided that if she was ever in the same car with Merlin again, she would be the one driving.<p>

"Relax," he said for the tenth time as they tore down a narrow lane going about five times faster than the car seemed capable of doing. "I've been driving since cars were invented."

This did not reassure her. She looked out the side window and Gaheris smiled at her. He was riding some sort of really fast horse that seemed to be made out of smoke. It was going just as fast as the automobile.

Above them, the two dragons wheeled in the blue sky - not that anyone could see them; Merlin had thoughtfully made them invisible, saying something about Muggles.

"So, I have a question for you," Miri said, after she was pretty sure she wouldn't throw up. "My parents, Dan and Laura, are they _really_ my parents, or is Ulric my father again?"

Merlin looked thoughtful. "I've been thinking about that, actually," he admitted, "and on the whole, I think you might be one hundred percent Caswell."

She raised an eyebrow. "And why do you say that?"

"Well, I have this theory that subconsciously you all remember your previous lives. Now, Uthur never lived long enough to regret hating magic, but he did live long enough to regret - forgive me - the mistake he made with your mother. So, I feel like he probably didn't make that mistake this time, you know?"

Then he smiled at her kindly. "Besides, where else could you have gotten those eyes from but Dan?"

* * *

><p>"How many are there?" Luis asked.<p>

"More than enough," replied Arthur. "It's going to take all of us to fight them. Except . . ." He looked at Divina. "Do you think you can hold the Unseelie off on your own? I know you're powerful, and we need all the help we can get, even from Melinda and Anne.

The sorceress nodded confidently. "Of course I can take them," she said, as if to suggest otherwise was to blaspheme.

"Just try and stop them in the first hallway, because if they can get into the ballroom-"

The ballroom was an enormous affair. The two doorways were on one side, at least fifty feet apart. The room was more than twice that long.

"Yeah, I get it. I have a plan," Divina said. "Now, you go and stop Mordred. Go!"

Anne stepped forward, her eyes worried. "Be careful, Divi. There are hundreds of them."

She hugged her sister and left.

Divina turned to look around the narrow passage. Even though her calm facade had not cracked in front of everyone else, inside she was rather panicky. She had just told them she had a plan; now she had to actually think of one.

_Of all the times to speak before you think, you just had to choose this time, didn't you Divi?_ But there was no backing out now (not that she would have), she had to find a way.

Divi prided herself in her clear thinking, her level-headedness when things went wrong. Martin - Merlin - had always praised her calmness. _So think. Be calm. What do you do?_

_What would Nimueh do?_

_Blast them into oblivion, most likely. But I don't have that option, do I? I'm not Nimueh, I'm Divina, I don't have her power!_

_Then what will you do? There's no spell that will work, no spell that will hold them back for long enough._

She was suddenly reminded of the curse that Merlin had placed on her when he had been locked in the Crystal Cave. She remembered a bitter Gaheris quoting it before he'd put her to sleep. _"When she most needs them, in her darkest hour of need, her precious spells will desert her. She will be left with only memories."_

Undoubtedly, this was a dark hour for her, certainly a moment when she needed her powers the most. But she wasn't Nimueh anymore, was she? So why would the the curse take hold? Her mind caught hold upon the thought that Merlin was a Seer; he would know she was doing good and so the curse wouldn't take hold now, would it?

Merlin's words from the that morning came back to her. _"I haven't Seen anything of it. It's like . . . there's something I'm not supposed to see."_

The gods would ensure Divina's repentance was complete. Merlin had not seen her here, so how would he know? She was doomed. Arthur was doomed. They were all doomed, doomed by her inability to defeat an army Nimueh could have demolished in her sleep. She was flooded with visions of what they would do once they got there. The only one she imagined might have a chance of surviving was Anne, which was not necessarily a good thing.

Divina's heart, already filled with conflicting emotions, seemed to drown in a sudden overwhelming despair. She leaned against the wall, a hand to her face, and sunk to the ground, trying not to cry. She struggled to come to her senses, to be the strong stoic sister she had always been, but every time she came close she was filled with images of the army she had encouraged Vivian to raise, of the devastation she had helped cause. Her shoulders began to shake.

"_She will be left with only memories."_

She wished she had never met Uther. How many things would be better if he had only met someone else? She wished Merlin really had been Uther's advisor like he was in the legends, for she doubted he would have become as vengeful as she had, would have caused as much destruction as she had.

"_. . . left with only memories."_

She could hear a faint rumbling, the banging of many feet as the army approached. Yes, she had failed. It would be better not to tell anyone, let them assume she had been too late, not let them know of her complete failure.

"_. . . only memories."_

She wished she could remember good things, like the times they'd had growing up. She struggled to remember visiting Stonehenge for the first time, looking up at the tall stones, feeling awe at the faint thrum of magic that encompassed everything there. She remembered running through the woods after Merlin, back when he was 'older' than she was, playing hide-and-seek. She tried to remember hugging Anne and fighting with Melinda.

"_. . . memories."_

The rumbling was louder. Sobbing miserably, Divina stuffed her fingers into her ears and remembered harder.

What had been the first spell Merlin taught her? Creating fire? Telekinesis? She couldn't remember. She also remembered demanding to be shown a 'flashy' spell. What had been that spell? She remembered some forks . . .

The next instant she was on her feet and racing out of the corridor into the big room. Looking wildly around, she struggled to estimate how long it was. A hundred feet? Something like that. And the entrances were on one of the ends. It might work. _It just might work._

She almost screamed in triumph; she had always known she liked Merlin, now she knew why - sometimes he said something useful.

But wait! The vital ingredient! For a moment her heart fell-

Then her eyes rested on Anne's backpack, still lying where the girl had dropped it, and she gasped. She rushed over and rifled through it, hoping against hope . . .

Her hand closed around a round container and she almost started crying again. She was starting to really doubt her brother hadn't known this was going to happen. Otherwise, how would he have known about the salt?

* * *

><p>To say the talk with Mordred went badly would be to say that having your leg hacked off was a flesh wound.<p>

Arthur had hoped that somehow they could rescue Leon, and maybe even get out of a fight, but he'd misunderstood Mordred when he'd said he had Leon. It became very clear that what he had not meant he had the knight _with him_. Unfortunately, Mordred still wasn't alone. Arthur was not the only one with re-born allies, and at Mordred's side stood enemies the Once and Future King knew: Morgause, and her husband King Lot, and other knights that had stood against Arthur in times past. Glen and Morgause glared daggers at each other; Gwaine had been the one to finally land a killing blow on the sorceress.

Arthur looked, but he didn't find Miriam among them. He didn't know how to feel about this.

Mordred was much as they all remembered, only a little bit younger, still in his early twenties, but there was still that dark gleam that seemed to eclipse his light eyes.

They exchanged the usual pleasantries: Mordred threatened Arthur's life, limb, and immortal soul, and Arthur pleaded with him to reconsider. Neither arguments did much except make everyone restless.

Morgause, usually careful and reserved, made the first move. She muttered something about wasting time and going nowhere anyway, and (of course), went for Glen first. It was a spell that he didn't have time to dodge, and couldn't block, but Anne solved that by calmly stepping in front of him and flicking it to the side.

Morgause raised an impressed eyebrow. "You've gotten better, Vivian," she said. Anne smiled humorlessly.

"Well, when you have the most powerful sorcerer in existence as your brother and teacher, you do tend to learn a great deal."

Negotiations went steadily downhill from there. Mordred and Arthur engaged, with their fighters on either side. It is said the Old Religion is a religion of balance. Perhaps that is why the two sides were so evenly matched; no one was without an opponent.

Always at the back of Arthur's mind was that question: where was Merlin?

* * *

><p>Divina stepped back from her handiwork: there had been just enough salt to mark out a large square in the room. It wouldn't stop the flying creatures, but she hoped her magic would be enough to at slow them down. The sounds of the army coming closer was very near, so she stepped into the opposite hallway, took a deep breath, and spoke the incantation.<p>

"_Bregdan awendan."_

She knew immediately that it had worked: there was an audible shifting the room, and the ceiling creaked a little from the strain. But it did not break.

She was not a moment too soon, for she could now she movements as the Unseelie army swarmed into the house. Freya had been right, that they would take the easiest route to Anne and Arthur. She grinned in triumph, and stood waiting for them.

* * *

><p>They stopped in front of an abandoned apartment complex in London, and Merlin wasted no time in exiting the car. Miri followed, confused.<p>

"Is this where Arthur is?" she asked, eyeing the rather rundown building.

"What? No," said Merlin, "but I believe this is where his most faithful knight is being kept. It's one of the possible places."

There were no other explanations, even though Miri looked askance. Merlin told Gaheris to go on without him, and the two cousins clasped arms in farewell.

"Leon's in there? Miri asked. "What is he doing?"

"Just see, and keep quiet," Merlin admonished her. "I'd like to sneak up on them if it's possible."

Who they were soon became apparent. Merlin had performed a simple revealing spell upon entering, and they followed its direction to the third floor. Merlin pointed to the one of the rooms.

"They're in there," he told her. "I'll disarm them, and you get Leon away." She was about to protest being delegated the easy job, but he was already moving, and she had no choice but to follow.

Merlin decided to go with the kicking-the-door-down route, instead of his usual. It worked in startling the inhabitants alright, so Miri supposed she could forgive such dramatics. There were only three people in the room, two standing and wielding weapons of some sort, and the third, a tall, bronze-haired man that Miri knew quite well as two people, knight and bodyguard, was tied to a chair. She headed for him immediately, not paying attention to the others; Merlin pretty much had them subdued already anyway.

Leon - or Rupert, as she supposed she should call him, as she had called him for many years - was mostly unconscious, with blood streaking down one side of his face. She called his name a few times while untying his legs, and he seemed to come to.

And then he tried to kick her in the face. It was lucky his coordination was off, otherwise she might have lost an eye, but she managed to back out of the way in time. Merlin hurriedly took her place.

"Rupert! Has the Knights' Code taught you nothing?" he admonished.

"Not when it comes to her," Rupert all but spat. "Traitor! And where'd you come from?"

Ignoring his question, Merlin pinned him to the chair with his stern gaze. "New life, new rules," he said. "Morgana is dead, and she's going to stay that way, too. Miriam is helping us. Now, are you going to play nice, or must I put some sort of shield between the two of you so you don't fight?"

The former knight and sorceress eyed each other warily. They had fought so long as Leon and Morgana, it would be hard to put aside all differences, but when Merlin loosed the last knot, Rupert Leal stood slowly and painfully, and held out his hand to her.

"Truce?" he asked.

Miriam Caswell took the hand gratefully. "Truce."

* * *

><p>Not all of Unseelie fell prey to Divina's spell; they weren't all as dumb as that. Quite a few backed away from the 'ledge', not sure what had happened but not willing to put their own lives at risk to find out what. There were flying creatures, though, griffins and Sidhe and wyverns, and they took flight for the other side. They looked so strange, because they had to fly sideways to get there.<p>

Divina was ready for them, but before she could so much as raise her hand, an arrow came flitting past and struck one of the Sidhe. It fell without a sound.

Divina turned to see the archer, and felt faint. Elves stood there, bows at the ready, and Divina knew the Seelie Court had arrived at last. Which meant-

"Merlin," she muttered, and ran past the elves. They could take care of their enemies. She wanted to find her brother.

The back lawn of the house was in chaos: The two Courts clashed in every direction, and the air was filled with all manner of creatures; she noted that the white dragon had grown enormously. Looking around, she could have sworn she saw a familiar red-haired man on a horse, leading the charge. But she couldn't be sure.

Turning, she saw Anne facing off against Morgause. Spell after spell flew through the air, rebounding and shattering. The two combatants had expressions of intense concentration on their faces, each determined to win. A griffin fixed its eye on Anne and dove: Divina demolished it. Then a ghoul. Then a weird snappy-thing.

_Who'd have thought protecting Anne was a full-time job?_ she thought. _Works for me._

* * *

><p>It was, perhaps, inevitable. History was repeating itself, after all. But Arthur had hoped that he would get a little bit further into his role of the Once and Future King before Mordred finished him off.<p>

But not so.

Mordred's blade slide, not smoothly, but gratingly, into Arthur's left lung, possibly getting his heart in the bargain. He heard someone scream, but he didn't think it was him . . . maybe it was. Pain was hard to think around.

Dark triumph flooded Mordred's face, and he pulled back again. Arthur fell to his knees; there would be no chance of him killing his killer this time. He slumped on the ground, breathing heavy, blood pouring, and waited for the final blow.

But Mordred did not finish him off. On the contrary, he was backing away, watching something that Arthur could not see, a wary, almost fearful, look in his eye.

Then Arthur felt the most horrifying thing: someone was pulling Excalibur out of his hand! All the warnings Merlin and Kilgharrah had ever given him about how he should be the only one to wield the sword echoed through his mind, and through the pain he tried to hold on.

A hand grasped his wrist, and a voice said, "Arthur. Let go. I know how to handle _this _sword."

And he did let go. Excalibur was lifted out of his palm and borne aloft in steady hands, and Mordred stared in angry disbelief.

Arthur allowed himself a small smile before he slipped into unconsciousness. Things may have turned out differently this time around, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Because if there had ever been a better swordsman in Camelot than Arthur Pendragon, it had been his father.

* * *

><p>Even through the pain he was aware: voices suddenly came (<em>Too late!<em> he thinks in annoyance), and hands touch him. He can pick out Gwen's panicked but restrained sobs, Gwaine's trembling tones, and several other people he doesn't even try to concentrate on.

"It's you," came the deep voice of Ulric; he was panting a little. "I knew you would come. I _knew _it."

"I always come," said another, softer, voice, this one even closer. "I just hope it's not too late."

And then - though it seems impossible, he must be hallucinating - calloused hands with long, cool fingers were touching his side, and there is dark hair he can vaguely make out in the approaching darkness, and the soft voice with a lilting accent, one he didn't really recognize. But he knew the words, oh yes.

"Come on, Arthur, what do you think you're doing? Only you would be idiotic enough to get stabbed by the same person, two fights in a row. Seriously, what happened to the most skilled swordsman in Camelot? Did he take a day off?"

Arthur would have laughed, but instinctively knew that would be an awful idea. "_Mer_lin, has it been so long that you've forgotten that you are the idiot? And whatever you're doing, be careful: I don't want to wake up and find all my ribs missing because you can't perform a simple healing spell."

There was a soft laugh, like a breath, and Arthur could see Merlin's grin in his mind's eye; no matter that he couldn't seem to see anything properly. "Well, hello Arthur," the warlock replied, and his voice trembled slightly. "Long time, no see."

Arthur took a breath to reply, but pain seared in his chest and he knew no more.

* * *

><p>When Arthur awoke, there was no pain. He was lying in his own bed, warm and comfortable. He felt . . . well, he felt more than fighting fit, to turn an old phrase.<p>

He turned over and threw the covers off, starting to sit up. A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned; his father stood by the fireplace, looking as he always did - except for a red line that ran down the right side of his face, like he'd been nicked by a blade.

They stared at each other for a few moments, the two Petersons, the two Pendragons, and neither really knew what to say. Finally, Arthur asked:

"How did you know?"

Ulric knew what he meant, and he smiled, almost laughing. "Many years ago, your mother bought a typewriter for a very good friend of hers. It was an odd one, because all the Es would land out of place. When I saw the letter that Merlin sent to Rupert lying on his desk, I knew that the sender was that same old friend. And I came."

"You saved my life," Arthur said. "You took Excalibur and killed Mordred, didn't you?"

"And then Merlin healed you," Ulric told him, nodding. "He made sure of everything. I can't imagine any of us would have survived . . . but for him."

Arthur watched his father with a curious eye. It was not like him to display such effusive gratitude, especially for someone like Merlin, no matter what they had done. He opened his mouth to ask, but Ulric raised his hand.

"What happened between me and Merlin will remain, if I have any say in the matter, between us only. The man's not Gaius, and would not want to be forgiven just because he did something right this time."

This did nothing to help Arthur's confusion, but he said nothing. Ulric moved to the door and opened it. "I'll send Merlin up. I believe there's much for you to talk of."

For a full two minutes, Arthur waited anxiously. He'd seen nothing of Merlin in this life, and fifteen hundred years was more than long enough to make someone unrecognizable. He wondered how Merlin had changed, and how he would deal with those changes. It reminded him of what David had said, that he was afraid Arthur would change a lot. Arthur now knew how he felt.

No one knocked, but the door opened softly. Merlin stood there, uncertain, nervous, just as anxious about seeing Arthur as Arthur was about seeing him, and Arthur suddenly caught a glimpse of what Merlin must be feeling. Fifteen hundred years without seeing a person, and you're bound to forget what they're like even if you had an eidetic memory. For Arthur, his memories were fresh, and he worried because he thought Merlin would change, but for Merlin, his memories were old. No matter what they had gone through together, no matter how close they had been, Merlin was having trouble remembering what Arthur was like. A stranger sat on the edge of the bed.

"Are you just going to stand there like a startled stoat, or are you going to come in?"

The words were slipping out of his mouth before he knew what he was saying. Merlin blinked, but he smiled a little and moved closer. His outward appearance hadn't changed much, though his hair was a little longer and his whole face quite a bit sadder. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then said: "Didn't you call me that once? I seem to remember . . ."

"Yes, and then you called me a toad," Arthur said, amused and annoyed.

Merlin laughed, and it didn't sound any different. "That's the way it was: I would come up with a new insult every other week, and you would always stick to the same old ones!"

"That, _Mer_lin, shows a constancy of character, while your constant changing shows an inability to make up your mind."

"Or a good imagination, and a determination to find the word that best describes you, because I'm not sure even 'prat' covers it," Merlin countered, his eyes shining. "And you're just trying to cover your lack of wit."

"Oho, _my _lack of wit!"

The conversation went on for some time in this vein, until Arthur finally sighed, and said, "Alright, stop stalling and tell me what you really wanted to talk about."

The immortal warlock hesitated, but he knew it was time to speak of these things, to make Arthur understand. "I thought we might speak of the future. Of what will come."

The Once and Future King frowned. "I've been thinking of that, actually. I don't get it. I'm not exactly in any place to be king, you know. So what do the prophecies mean?"

Merlin smiled. "I've also thought quite a bit about this, and I don't think it means you have to actually be king, like ruling a country. But you could be a different kind of king . . ."

It took Arthur a moment to understand, and then he groaned. "What, you mean like _Elvis_?!" he demanded.

The warlock laughed heartily at this. "Yes, David told me about your conversation. And yes, I suppose you could say it like that - though I don't recommend you unleash your singing skills on the unsuspecting masses just yet. You might stick with things you're a little better at, like promoting world peace or something." He laughed harder at Arthur's withering glare.

"Right," Arthur said. "I think I get the picture."

"You're in a very good position for this, Arthur," Merlin said earnestly. "With your father's company, and David's influence, and all that. And Glen, too!"

"Glen?"

Merlin looked left and right, as if checking for eavesdroppers, and leaned in a little closer. "Our Glen works for the Irish Secret Service. I didn't even know that until yesterday."

Arthur stared. "The Irish Secret Service?" he repeated. "Good heavens. I fear for them."

Merlin gave him a dirty look. "_Anyway_. You see what I'm saying, don't you?"

The younger man nodded. "I can't bring paradise," he said, and Merlin shook his head. "But I can try and bring it closer," Arthur mused. "Make the world a better place."

"One person at a time," Merlin said softly.

"Peace."

"Unselfishness."

"Common decency."

"I think you'd have to learn some yourself, first," Merlin said, and dodged automatically.

When the scuffle was over, Arthur changed the subject.

"And what about everyone else? What about . . . Anne. What Anne and Gaheris? How are they doing?"

Merlin hesitated. "There's lots to heal there," he replied. "Many wounds. But she's a different person. A better person. They've both grown. No matter what goes down between them, I have great hopes that they'll both end up happy."

"And the other two?"

"Actually, I do believe your father has already offered Divina a job, working in the legal department. We'll see how that works out. And Melinda and Glen are flirting again. I just wonder how long their relationship will last this time . . . I swear, if she comes home crying again, I don't care if he is my friend, I'm going to break his nose . . ."

This side of Merlin, the protective-older-brother mode, was new. He'd never acted quite like this, even with Gwen and Niniane. He also seemed to have grown a bit more violent if his (possibly not empty) threats were anything to go on.

"And what about you and Gina?" asked Merlin suddenly. "Going to start off right back where you left off?"

Arthur just smiled

Laughing again (he did seem to be doing that a lot), Merlin moved towards the door. "It's lovely to see you again, Arthur," he said, and earnestness was written in the words. "Really. But speaking of Gina, I think she wants to see you, so . . ."

Arthur nodded, and Merlin opened the door again.

"By the way, Merlin," Arthur said, and the warlock turned around again. "What's with that accent? I hardly recognize your voice."

Merlin's eyebrows shot up and his jaw dropped. "You can talk! You've gone Welsh! Besides, I dare you to live in Ireland for, what, twenty years, and not pick up the inflection. So _infectious _. . . "

Arthur almost choked trying to hold the laughter down. "Oh, the look on your face," he gasped. "Don't ever change, Merlin. Don't ever change . . . "

**"When I left Queen's my future seemed to stretch out before me like a straight road. I thought I could see along it for many a milestone. Now there is a bend in it. I don't know what lies around the bend, but I'm going to believe that the best does."**

— **L.M. Montgomery**

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><p>Aaaaaaaaand . . . all that's left is the epilogue, which should be up fairly soon. I hope that was a satisfying second half and that I didn't leave too many loose ends;)<p> 


	17. EPILOGUE

AN: Last chapter! Don't forget the other chapter subtitles. Enjoy!

Changes: Just little things;)

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><p>Epilogue<p>

**. . . ****But ****We ****Also ****End ****Right ****Back ****Where ****We ****Started****; ****That ****is****, ****With ****Elvis**

_Four __Months __Later__ . . ._

When another apparently important man shook her hand, Divina resisted the urge to groan. It was bad enough that Arthur had dragged them to this party, but he also expected her to talk to people. Even as Nimueh, conversing with normal people in a perfectly normal manner had not been normal, and, unfortunately, that hadn't changed much. Besides, these people were annoying!

Oh, she rued the day she had agreed to work at Ulric Peterson's company . . .

Well. Not really.

Tuning out the man's banal words, she instead searched for familiar faces.

Gwen - sorry, Gina - had left Arthur's side and was talking politely (very politely) with some blueblood. She looked, as always, stunning in a evening dress that harked back to her queenly regalia. Melinda was standing by the refreshment table, chatting up the only cute guy around. Arthur was very seriously discussing business with a few men and women.

Merlin and Anne were nowhere to be seen. Divina filed this under 'Deeply Suspicious".

It was because of business opportunities in the States that they were there. Ulric had sent Arthur to negotiate, Divina had gone as a legal representative, and in the end the entire Evans family had gone, due to a jealous fit Anne had thrown. The party was being held outside of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City; Divina thought the museum pieces were quite good, though New York was certainly not her idea of a perfect city.

Arthur sidled up. "Do you know where Merlin is?" he asked out of the corner of his mouth. "I haven't seen him in five minutes; that usually means he's getting into trouble."

Divina answered in the negative. "Anne's not here either," she reported seriously. "You don't suppose they're in the museum?"

Arthur's eyebrows drew together. "But the museum's locked-"

"Since when has that ever stopped Merlin? He probably wants to have another look at that magical artifact he noticed this morning."

Arthur growled. "If he releases some Native American demon intent on avenging its death on all Europeans, I'm going to do it a favor and kill Merlin myself."

Divina chuckled and would have answered, but instead she gasped and clutched her chest. A heavy feeling had passed through her, like the aftershock of an earthquake.

Immediately, the former king was on the alert. "What is it?" he asked. He knew the signs of a sorcerer that had felt powerful magic.

"That wasn't Merlin . . ." she panted. "But whatever it was-"

She was promptly interrupted by the museum's roof blowing off with a roaring _whoooooosh__!_

Everyone startled backwards, for a moment not sure what had happened. Then the full impact of what had happened hit them, and suddenly everyone was panicking.

Divina and Arthur started fighting their way towards the museum. Divina's heart was pounding. Melinda was standing half-way up the steps, watching the smoke with a flabbergasted expression. Divina and Arthur were almost upon her when Merlin and Anne came pelting out of the front doors and clattered towards them.

"Nope, other way!" Merlin cried. "_Turn __around_!" There was an ominous green light behind them; they could see it playing on the walls beyond the glass doors.

The three didn't listen. "What did you do?" Arthur demanded as the warlock neared.

"I _told_ him not to touch it!" Anne said before Merlin could answer. "But did he listen? No!"

"Well, how was I supposed to know it would do that?" Merlin snapped. "Now come on, you need to go, it's coming!" He seemed quite desperate.

"_What__'__s_ coming?" Divina asked. "Why aren't we staying to fight it?"

Melinda suddenly grabbed Merlin's arm; her face was as one having a conniption, her chest heaving as she stared open-mouthed at the smoking museum.

"You-"

Merlin grabbed her arm urgently. "C'mon, Melinda, we have to go!"

She didn't move. "You . . . "

He groaned impatiently. "Have you any idea how much danger we're in right now?"

At this, Melinda found her voice with a vengeance. "_You __blew __up __the __Metropolitan __Museum __of __Art__!_"

Merlin looked baffled. "When did you start caring about museums? And I'll have you know it was the _demon_ that destroyed _part_ of the museum! Please, we don't have what we need to defeat it now, and it will stop at nothing to kill you if, _if__,_ you're found. Just go and get my staff, Divina knows where it is; I'll hold it off till you get back."

The glass doors trembled violently and shattered, the shimmering pieces falling to the concrete with _tings _and _tangs_. The green light grew brighter, flooding out and starting to condense on a single spot.

"Uh-oh," Merlin muttered.

"What's 'uh-oh'?" Arthur demanded, watching the light with a wary eye and wishing he had his sword.

"It's starting to come together," Merlin explained. "Since I touched it, it will take on a form that will be difficult for me to defeat, someone or something I won't want to hurt."

Anne groaned. She hated creatures like that. "Then _you_ go and get your staff, and we'll take care of it!"

It sounded like a good plan to Divina, but Merlin shook his head, his brow furrowed. "You don't have the experience to deal with a creature such at this, not yet," he told them seriously. "Now go, and . . . don't be gone long."

Divina found herself wondering if he doubted his own experience, but it was too late to argue; the demon had taken form.

If only someone watching had had a camera; it would have been the most perfect picture of facial expressions ever taken.

Anne was a bit near-sighted, so she leaned forward and squinted to see the demon. Melinda was the opposite: she all but leapt backwards in horror. Arthur's face was slightly disgusted, while Divina's lips were twitching in an attempt to hide a grin.

But the best was Merlin's face. He looked like Christmas had come early.

Standing at the top of the stairs was . . . Elvis.

Melinda didn't seem to be able to stand the sight of him. "Get your staff, did you say Merlin? On it. Anyone with me?"

Arthur looked sorely tempted. "I need my sword . . ." he said, still staring as if mesmerized by a train wreck. Elvis, smiling smugly, had started to descend the stairs. He was confident as a peacock.

Divina suddenly groaned. "Oh, how clever," she muttered in disgust. "Of course the demon knows Merlin could never hurt _Elvis__._ He practically worshiped the man! Still does!"

Merlin turned towards her, his eyes wide and his face still ecstatic. "What on earth are you talking about?" he demanded, grinning. "This is perfect! Not only do I get to see the face of my greatest hero, I finally have a good reason to blast one of his imposters into oblivion! It's like killing two birds with one stone!"

There was a moment of silence as all processed his words. Then Arthur seemed to come out of a trance.

"Right," he said, "sword." He clapped a hand on Merlin's shoulder, and now he was the one hiding a grin. "Good luck, Merlin. We'll be back soon."

Divina and Anne stepped up to his side. "Those two may be cowards, unwilling to face the music, but we aren't," Anne told him, her head held high.

Divina elbowed Merlin a little. "We're here to help," she told him quietly, her face once again calm and unreadable. "In the end, Melinda will be sad she missed it, but there you are."

Merlin smiled and stepped forward to meet Elvis. "Let's get to it then," said the immortal warlock. "Maybe, if we're lucky, he'll sing us a song."

"**If ****life ****was ****fair****, ****Elvis ****would ****still ****be ****alive ****and ****all ****the ****impersonators ****dead****." **

― **Johnny ****Carson**

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><p>Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand . . . thats's it! FOREVER! Muahahahahahaha!<p>

Ahem. I hope you enjoyed that. For some reason I'm very fond of this chapter, even though it's not the best thing I've ever written.

Nobody: Thank you for your reviews! I was actually just in Texas, and I do believe that a Texan can love something just because it has Texas in it;) Your reviews always make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside:)

Please tell me your thoughts this one last time. Any comments are welcome, especially constructive criticism. I'm always happy to hear ways my writing can be improved;)

_That__'__s __all __folks__!_


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